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GREATiNESS 



IN 


LITTLE THINGS: 


OR. 


WAY-SIDE VIOLETS. 



RUTH VERNO 




“Little drops of water, 
Little grains of sand — 
Make the mighty ocean, 
And the heautious land. 


NEW YORK: . 

DAYTON & WENTWORTH, NASSAU STREET. 
A. RANNEY, 195 BROADWAY. * 
CINCINNATI: 

H. M. RULISON, 115J^ MAIN STREET. 

1 854 . 







Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by 

DA VID ANDERSOI^ 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the District of Ohio. 




. . i 


, - 4 

3^ ; 


> 


PREFACE. 


It may, perchance, have frequently presented itself to 
the minds of reflecting persons, that it is not always those 
things, which are held in the highest estimation in the 
world, that are really the most valuable : that many of 
those men, who have, by their actions, rendered them- 
selves conspicuous on the great stage of life, have not 
always been among those who can be called truly great, 
when comparing their deeds, and motives of action, with 
that standard of f)ivine Truth, which has been given as 
a guide to men by an all-wise Lord. 

It has been the writer’s aim, in the following simple 
tale, to show that true greatness does not consist only in 
shining deeds of prowess, or in carrying out the schemes 
of a lofty ambition ; but that it may be exhibited just as 
truly when performing, with humility, firmness and self- 
denial, that round of daily duties, those ** little things,’* 
which may alike be found in the path of all. That this 
little work may be of some use, in leading *the young to 
form a correct estimate of the. standard of heroism and 
virtue, which they should aim at and admire ; that it may 
prevent some from being led astray by the world’s specious 
applause, and guide them to the Fountain of Truth, is 
the earnest prayer of their affectionate friend, 

RUTH VERNOfj. 


September, 1864. 




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' - id'-l 




I ,XI. 


S-M’. 


• V 






GREATNESS 


IN 


LITTLE THINGS. 


CHAPTER I. 

The d^y round, the oommon task, 

Will ftimish all we ought to ask ; 

Boom to deny ourselves, a road 
To bring us daily nearer God.— K bblb. 

Her soul, like the transparent air 
That robes the hills above. 

Though not of earth, encircles there 
All things with arms of love. — LoNorELLOW. 

“Father,” exclaimed Beatrice Evelyn, looking 
np with an animated countenance, from the book 
she was reading, “ what an extremely false notion 
most people have of greatness; it seems to me, 
that so many of the persons considered in the 
light of great men by the world, have been very 
poor heroes ; just forwarding their own selfish pur- 
poses, with an uncommon disregard of the legality 
of the ways and means they employed. Why, I 
think Henry Martyn was a much greater man than 
Napoleon, do not you, dear Papa ? it seems much 

( n ) 


12 Greatness in Little Things. 

more noble to give np country and friends and all 
comforts and luxuries, for a missionary life, than it 
is to squander thousands of lives for personal am- 
bition.” 

“ Why, I declare, my bonny Bee, you are turning 
philosopher,” said her father, smiling fondly at her, 
“but I think you are quite right, my child; you 
know, the Bible tells us that ‘ he that ruleth his 
spirit is better than he that taketh a city,’ and we 
should never take such a false estimate of life, as to 
think that what makes the greatest eclat in the world 
is the most useful : a man, yes, and a woman too, 
may be truly great in performing the simplest 
duties of life — still some are undoubtedly called to 
more public exhibitions of greatness of character 
than others.* Washington was a great man because 
he had noble and true motives for those actions 
which have gained him such renown, and, what is 
more, so much love and gratitude. I call our little 
friend, Bessie Hamilton, great, though in a different 
way, when she refused the offer of an advantageous 
and a luxurious home, that she might be able to 
nurse her sick father and take care of her little 
motherless brothers and sisters.” 

“Yes, Papa,” said Beatrice, “and I think it 
harder to bear any harassing and continuous annoy- 
ances in daily life, than one down -right trouble, do 
not you ?” 


Trials Kemoved. 


13 


““Well, my dear, you have known very little as 
yet, thank God, of what you call downright trouble; 
but I think, certainly, that a person of inferior 
character of mind, might bear up against the latter, 
who would be quite overcome under a series of 
small worries and vexations.” 

“Papa, thinking of what is good and beautiful 
seems to help one to see these trials in their right 
light ; when we think of them only as permitted 
and probationary — just every one of them needed to 
purify us for a higher and purer existence-r-we can 
give them their proper place in the scale of im- 
portance.” 

“ You are right, my darling,” said Mr. Evelyn 
rising, “ but I am going out now ; it is tolerably 
cool, the sun is nearly setting — so I will stroll down 
to the public library and get a book to read, for I 
finished mine this morning.” 

“ Well do. Papa, and I will go into the conserva- 
tory and water my flowers, they will need refreshing 
after this hot day.” 

Her father’s retreating footsteps were heard down 
the staircase and through the hall, and Beatrice ran 
lightly across the room into the conservatory which 
adjoined it. Oh the flowers ! what sweet, gentle 
ministers of love and goodness they are ; how many 
sad hearts have been lightened — how many care- 


14 Greatness in Little Things. 

worn faces received a ray of sunshine when gazing 
on their soft petals and inhaling their sweet perfume ; 
and in a city-life, which was that of Beatrice Evelyn, 
they seem doubly welcome and dear, when the hum 
and bustle, and driving and jostling of the world 
without, press so palpably on the senses all day 
long, that they seem yet more innocent and precious 
by the contrast. Beatrice tripped lightly among 
these, her treasures, refreshing their leaves from a 
little green watering-can, which was her especial 
property, and ever and anon confining a tendril 
which was straying too wantonly from its parent 
stem,- or removing those fiowerets which had parted 
with their beauty and freshness to successors as 
lovely as they had been. And very fair and pleas- 
ant she looked herself, as she bent down among the 
plants, and lovingly pressed her lips against a fresh 
mossrose-bud. Beatrice was just the sort of girl 
calculated to win love from those around her ; she 
had a gentle winning softness of manner, and a face 
that one loved at first sight, not so much for its 
striking beauty as for the sweetness of its expression. 
How true it is, “ The light of the body is the eye,” 
and no one, that looked into her dark-gray eyes, 
could fail to discern high-souled intellect and depth 
of thought. Of middle, height, somewhat, perhaps, 
above the average, her delicately rounded figure 


Mr. Evelyn's Character. 


15 


showing to advantage, in a simple white dress, and 
her rich brown hair simply braided, she stood a 
flower among the flowers. 

Beatrice Evelyn was the daughter of a retired 
merchant in New York; a man who had found 
time, amidst the distractions of business, to give a 
due share of attention to the duties of Christianity, 
to literary pursuits, and to the education of his 
family. Although feeling that even in business, 
what we do, should be done with all our might, and 
being, in consequence, esteemed among his brother 
merchants as a man of punctual habits and scrupu- 
lous accuracy in mercantile aflfairs, he was far from 
wishing to make money for money itself ; what he 
acquired he considered as a talent to be employed 
in the service of God, whether in procuring com- 
forts for his family, or in promoting His cause in a 
more direct manner. 

Mr. Evelyn felt that to acquire means to lavish 
them on luxurious equipages and fashionable living, 
was inconsistent wnth his profession as a Christian, 
and was productive, beside, of no real happiness. 
He strove to be independent, as far as might be, of 
the world’s opinion, and when his acquaintances 
said to each other, how extraordinary it was of 
Evelyn, not to live in a finer house, and keep up a 
larger establishment, when he was so well off, they 
little thought how much happier he was in being 


10 Greatness in Little Things. 

free from the trammels of fashion ; and that pos- 
sessing, as he did, that “ peace which passeth under- 
standing,” and a superiority to the things of time — 
his money brought him far more real satisfaction 
than it did to those who paraded their means in 
“ the world’s gay, garish show.” 

Some years before our story commences, he had 
retired from business, shortly after the death of a 
beloved wife, whose loss affected him deeply. He 
sorrowed not as those that have no hope, for he felt 
that they had both been bought with the same price 
and were fellow-heirs of a blissful eternity. The 
loss, however, of one who has been the dearest 
companion and friend for so many years, must 
always be a severe tiial to a man of deep feeling ; 
and Mr. Evelyn, having now a sufficient competen- 
cy, resolved to retire from business and devote him- 
self henceforward to the care of the two motherless 
little girls his Mary had left him, while his duties 
as a Christian and a citizen were never neglected. 
He had some time before, joined one of the Presby- 
terian Churches in the city, and was both a member 
and an elder. The number of his deeds of charity 
are known only to Him for whose sake they were 
done — a Christian does not his alms to be seen of 
men. Of his two children, Beatrice was the eldest — 

Henrietta, the youngest, was still at school, a short 

♦ 

distance from the city. Beatrice was always a 


Mk8. Grant. 


17 


thoughtful, nieditativo child, yet full of feeling and 
energy; while Hetty was a wild, impulsive creature, 
small and dark-eyed, and in complexion like a 
daughter of Italy. Though somewhat deficient in 
caution and prudence, she was such a warm-hearted, 
afiectionate girl, that her friends were always ready 
to forgive the errors she so quickly repented qf, and 
so freely confessed. She certainly wanted stability 
of character, though her high spirits made her the 
life of the house whenever she was at home for the 
holidays, and often Beatrice and Mr. Evelyn would 
drive out on a Saturday afternoon and bring the 
merry and delighted girl to spend the Sabbath with 
them all at home. Hetty looked up to Beatrice 
almost as to a mother, for she sufiered her mobile 
and impulsive nature to submit itself to her sister’s 
guidance ; and,, beside, Beatrice had arrived at the 
dignified age of twenty, while Hetty was but four- 
teen. About a year before this time their family 
circle had received a not very pleasant addition, in 
the shape of a widowed sister of Mr. Evelyn’s, who 
had, by the death of her husband, been very greatly 
reduced in her circumstances, and to whom her 
brother, in the kindness of his heart, offered a home. 

It certainly required some self-denial to do this, 
for Mrs. Grant was not at all a pleasant or genial 
person. She was as unlike her brother as possible ; 


18 Greatness in Little Things. 

she seemed to bring no sunshine with her, and 
though she was really a well-informed woman, she 
was so strongly prejudiced, and of so obstinate and 
quarrelsome a disposition, that to live with her 
peaceably was a hard trial. She seemed as if she 
had stifled in her bosom all the gentler and softer 
feelings of nature, and generally managed to take a 
twisted or crooked view of any matter that was the 
subject of conversation — and yet her friends could 
make some allowance for all this : her wedded life 
had been an unhappy one : she had married, late in 
life, a man who, under protestations of afiection, 
had married her for the little money she possessed, 
and then treated her with cool neglect. Her heart 
had never been warmed by the confldence of mutual 
love ; and while she was moping out a vague, pur- 
poseless existence in a retired house in one of the 
Southern States, her temper and disposition became 
soured. It was one of our friend Beatrice’s crosses 
to bear with all her aunt’s vagaries, and to bear 
them in a Christian manner, thinking of her 
charitably, and trying to win her over by gentleness 
and dutiful attentions. 

But we left Beatrice among her flowers, which, 
having duly been watered and admired, she threw 
herself on a low couch, to refresh herself for awhile 
with the sweet dreamings of Henry Longfellow : 


J\Ir. Chichester. 


19 


“ Lives of great men all remind us, 

We must make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints in the sands of time.” 

Oh ! thought Beatrice, does not that just express 
what I was saying, this afternoon, to dear Papa? 
‘ we can make our lives sublime.’ How I wish that 
I could live to some purpose — that I might be able 
to do something to help and comfort some one — I 
feel as if I could give my life’s energies to help the 
friendless and weak — to do something for God. 

The time will come, it will surely come, Beatrice, 
if you patiently wait ; by always picking up the 
grains that are scattered around us, we may gather 
a good harvest ere our journey be ended. 

“ Beatrice ! come here, child,” cried a shrill voice 
at the drawing-room door, “ I want you in the store- 
room to arrange the dessert for dinner ; you know 
your father has asked Mr. Chichester to dine with 
us, and don’t, pray, lie dreaming there ; I call it real 
waste of time ! you might have been sorting those 
wools for me, or doing a hundred other things.” 

“ I will come directly, aunt,” said Beatrice, 
gently, “ I was only reading — and I will arrange a 
few flowers in the vases at the same time.” 

It seems rather hard, thought she, to leave ofi* 
just in the middle of my comfortable reading, but 
it is in these little things that we must ‘ conquer our 
9 


20 Greatness in Lrrn.E Things. 

spirits’ — and Mr. Chichester, too — I wish Papa 
would not ask him here so often; perhaps being the 
son of his late partner, he does it out of kindness. 
Well, it is like him, dear, good man that he is; but 
Mr. Chichester is still too attentive for it to be 
pleasant to meet him, and I feel I could never, never 
like him. 

Her aunt had gone down stairs again, and as 
Beatrice followed her, the above thoughts passed 
through her mind till she was aroused from her 
reverie by hearing Mrs. Grant again exclaim: 

“ Gome now, Beatrice, do be quick and arrange 
these dishes properly, and then you had better go 
and dress : your father will not like it if you are late 
for dinner, and, beside, you know your lover, Mr. 
Chichester, is to be here.” 

“He is no lover of mine, aunt, and never will 
be,” returned Beatrice, “ I like him tolerably well 
as a friend, and 1 think he is intellectual and gentle- 
manly, but as anything dearer than a friend I could 
never think of him for a moment.” 

“Just to hear you now, child! why what more 
would you have; you 3^our3elf admit that he is 
gentlemanly and intellectual — and he has lively 
manners and is good-looking too, as far as I am any 
judge of such things.” 

“This is all very true, aunt,” said Beatrice, 
quietly arranging a dish of peaches, “ but he does 


A Christian Husuand. 


21 


not satisfy me; he seems to have no principle for 
his actions ; he talks as if he did things because the 
world thought it right or proper, or because it ac- 
corded with his notions of gentlemanly propriety, 
or else because it gained him the admiration of 
friends — not because it was his duty as a Christian. 
I feel he could not be depended upon, under all cir- 
cumstances ; I should not feel sure of him if worldly 
affairs went wrong or if he were placed in a situa- 
tion where his duty was opposed to his interests.” 

“Dear me, child, who put all this rigmarole of 
nonsense into your head ? where do you think you 
would ever find a husband who would be such a 
pink of propriety Rnd goodness as all that? But 
you are always sticking up for something out of the 
way ; I suppose you think yourself better than any 
one else, and nothing but a pattern minister would 
suit you 1” 

“ Indeed, aunt, your are mistaken ; I do not think 
it at all essential that a man should be a minister in 
order to be a Christian, but I do know that I never 
will marry any one whom I do not believe to be a 
child of God : believe me, Aunt Louisa, I do not say 
this from any feeling of pride, or from wishing to 
think too highly of myself, but I do think that 
Christians should be more mindful than they often 
are, of the injunction of Paul, not to be ‘ unequally 


2 ‘2 Greatness in -Little Things. 

yoked together with unbelievers.’ I am sure that 
those who do so suffer their earthly affections to 
overcome their sense of love to Christ-— must suffer 
many, many miseries and trials from opposition of 
opinion, and want of mutual sympathy in the best 
and highest things.” 

“ Well, I am sure, I only hope you may find a 
husband to your taste,”^ said Mrs. Grant as she 
turned to leave the store-room. “ But 1 know more 
of the world than yourself, and what most men are, 
and I think you will run a great chance of being an 
old maid, if you are so particular.” 

“Well, Aunt, I am not such a disbeliever in good- 
ness as all that: I do know enough of the world, 
to know that there are few men who exactly come 
up to the standard of what I could admire and love — 
but still, I believe, there are many who are earnest 
followers of God, even in their youth — I do not 
believe in the principle of marrying a man in the 
hope of converting him; that is often a mere 
temptation of our own evil hearts, and but too often 
brings the fruits of bitter repentance with it after- 
ward.” ) 

“Well, now let us come and dress for dinner,”' 
said Mrs. Grant, “I suppose you mean well, but 
you have uncommonly queer notions; however, 
I suppose your father encourages you in them. I 


A Christian Husband. 23 

think he is nearly as crazy as yourself, on some 
points.” 

“ Oh, Aunt!” said Beatrice, as she slowly followed 
Mrs. Grant up stairs, “ I am sure, dear Papa only 
wishes me to think what is good and right — I wish 
I were like him !” 

. ' 3 - 


i; ' Olh 

. -:sd 


■ i V 

'Sf 


) 


CHAPTER II. 


Who in life’s battle firm doth stand, 

Shall bear Hope’s tender blossoms 

Into the Silent Land. — LoNorELLOW 

Beatrice had scarcely finished dressing when she 
heard her father’s and Mr. Chichester’s voices in 
the hall, and in a few minutes afterward the dinner- 
bell rang. As she was going down stairs, she met 
her father just coming out of his room, standing on 
a little landing between the two flights of steps. 

“Well, my bonny Bee,” said he, fondly kissing 
her, “ what is my little philosopher looking so grave 
about ! eh ! Tell me, my child, isn’t everything 
going smoothly this evening ?” 

“Yes, dear Papa, tolerably so. I had only been 
thinking of something Aunt Louisa and I were talk- 
ing about a little time ago. Papa,” said she, paus- 
ing, “you will never make me do anything contrary 
to what I wish — I mean contrary to what I think 
right — will you ?” 

“iN'o, my dear, certainly not — but what do you 

mean ?” 

( 24 ) 


Dinner. 


“ O ! never mind, Papa,” said Beatrice smiling, 
“ now I have your promise;” and she ran quickly 
down before him till she reached the hall. 

“I say, you foolish Bee, to take flight in that 
way,” said Mr. Evelyn as he went down stairs, 
“ come back you little silly thing and speak to me 
directly.” His daughter came back rather reluct- 
antly, and as he looked into her face, he said, ‘‘ you 
weren’t thinking anything about Mr. Chichester, 
were you. Bee ? Bless you, child, I am not such a 
foolish man as to wish any child of mine to marry 
against her inclinations; and I told Chichester as 
much, this afternoon, as we came along ; that after 
what you said to him the other day, he might con- 
sider the matter settled ; although we should be 
happy to receive him as a friend for ‘ auld acquaint- 
ance’ sake.” 

“ Thank you, thank you, dear Papa; how shall I 
ever repay you for all your kind indulgence to 
me?” 

“ Indeed, dear one, you are such a treasure to me, 
that I do not know any man, now, to whom I should 
be willing to give my bonny Bee, so I must clip her 
wings, if she wants to fly.” 

“ Indeed, dear Papa, there is no danger, I assure 
you,” said Beatrice laughing, “but let us make 
haste to the drawing-room — I see Socrates coming to 
announce dinner.” 


26 Greatness in J^ittle Things. 

Kespecting tlie incidents of dinner-time, we shall 
remark little, except that Mr. Chichester’s conversa- 
tion was unusually agreeable and lively ; he seemed 
to think too well of himself to be willing to believe 
that Beatrice was indifferent toward him, and 
hoping still to ingratiate himself with her, he 
directed all his most lively sallies in that quarter ; 
while poor Beatrice experienced somewhat of that 
awkwardness of feeling, natural to a young woman, 
who is still associating with a man who has sought 
her hand, and been refused. 

She was not destined, however, to have to bear 
with his company and attentions all the evening, for 
just after dessert was placed on the table, Socrates, 
their old colored servant, softly opened the door and 
said that there was a poor woman in the kitchen 
who wanted to speak with Missy Evelyn. 

“ Who is it, Socrates,” said Mr. Evelyn ; “ go and 
see what she wants, and come and tell us.” 

‘‘ Indeed, Missy,” said Socrates, when he returned, 
“ it seems quite a referential subject-like, as she 
wants to tell you. She will not ’municate anything, 
BO, perhaps, you would do yourself the favor to step 
out and see her ?*’♦ 

Smiling at Socrates’ eloquence, Beatrice rose, 
apologizing for leaving the table, and saying she 
would return as soon as she had seen what the poor 
woman wanted. 


Biddy Ryan. 


'27 


On entering the kitchen Beatrice saw a woman 
standing by the fire, whose appearance denoted con- 
siderable poverty, and whose care-worn countenance 
plainly told that she had seen more than the little 
ills of life. 

“Ah ! Biddy, is that you ? Why I have not seen 
you for a long time ; why have you never been to see 
me before said Beatrice, after returning the poor 
Irishwoman’s salutation. 

“ And sure, Miss, it ’s yourself vas good to us in 
the faver we had, but since my ould man ’s took to 
the say-faring life, it’s meself that’s intirely took 
up with minding the childers at home and workin’ 
for them night an’ day, and I would not be beggin’, 
my swate lad}^, vhile I can work. But it ’s not for 
meself I ’m come to ye this time. First, Miss, I ’ll 
tell ye that my Pat’s come home from the West 
Injies : his ship came into harbor yesterday fore- 
noon, an’ faith he ’s at home now this blessed minnit, 
an’ glad enough ve be to see him. And it’s by the 
marcy of God 1 ever did see my ould man’s face 
ag’in, for when the vessel was off the coast of Flo- 
rida, some vicked wretches there on the shore, my 
lady, put out a false light to decoy the poor sailors 
and make ’em think it was a lighthouse, that they 
might be wrecked, and then the varmints could steal 
whativer they could lay hands on. AVell! to make 

my story short, the poor ship struck on tiie rocks, 

3 


28 Gkeatnkss in Little Things. 

tsure enough, and many of the people in her were 
dhrowned and among ’em a fine French merchant 

who was cornin’ from the island of St St , 

some o’ the blessed saints, Miss — ” 

“ St. Thomas, perhaps, Biddy,” said Beatrice, 
smiling. 

“ Sure enough. Miss, an’ that ’s the very word ; 
but as I was going to say, this ’ere poor jintleman 
had with him a little slip of a daughter, about ten 
years old, that he was bringin’ with him to New 
York, and the poor little thing was just cast ashore, 
half dhrowned. My Pat, for pity’s sake, took care 
of her. Well! Miss, somehow or other, they all 
traveled to some place where another ship was 
found, which brought them all safe home, (glory be 
to God !) and here ’s my Pat brought this poor little 
foreigner home, and she ’s now lying in our house 
on a little bed of my Bessie’s, and niver a word of 
her lingo can we understand ; it ’s a vender so rich 
a man didn’t have his child taught some dacent 
tongue — scace one blessed word she says that ve 
can make out the maning of!” 

“Well! I suppose you want me to come and see 
her, Biddy said Beatrice, “ perhaps I can make 
something out of the poor child, and she must be a 
charge to you.” 

“O ! niver spake o’ that Miss, tho’ i’ faith I should 
be glad intirely to know what to do with the little 


Reflections. 


29 


one. She is just crying fit to break her heart all 
the time,-' calling for her Papa, and he lying cold 
and dead beneath the salt say (God rest his soul in 
peace!) So if you could kindly come back with me, 
mistress, darlint, I would thank you kindly.” 

“ Well! Biddy, I must go in and ask Papa, I^.am 
afraid it is almost too late to go as far as Hawthorn 
street to-night, but I will come early in the morning 
if I cannot come now. But tell me, Biddy, what 
your husband’s surname is, in case we should not 
find your house easily; it is getting late and you had 
better not wait, your children will be wanting you.” 

“ Sure, mistress, an’ all the world knows Pat 
Ryan, an’ a dashin’ fine man he is too,” said Biddy, 
her face lighting up with honest afiection. “It’s 
No. 13, Miss, our house is ; it ’s but a poor place to 
ask the like o’ you to come to. Good-night, Miss.” 

There is as much warm-hearted kindness and 
self-denying usefulness in Pat’s home of poverty, as 
there is in many rich houses, and far more happi- 
ness, too, thought Beatrice, as she re-crossed the hall 
and opened the door of the dining-room, where they 
were still sitting at table, awaiting her re-appear- 
ance. 

“Well! my child, what has detained you so 
long,” said Mr. Evelyn ; “ I was beginning to fear 
the beggar-woman was some fairy and had be- 
witched you away.” 


30 Greatness in Little Things. 

“ Indeed, Papa, she was no fairy, but poor Biddy 
Ryan, whom you may remember having relieved 
several times last winter, when her family were sick 
with fever and sitting down, Beatrico, in a few 
words, recounted the substance of the poor woman’s 
narration. 

“ Well ! Miss Evelyn,” said Mr. Chichester, when 
she had concluded, “ I do not see why, because that 
sailor is foolish enough to burden himself with that 
little French child, you should plague yourself about 
her. Do give us some music this evening, and 
pray do not think of running away.” 

“ I am sure,” returned Beatrice, ‘‘ that poor Biddy 
would not have come for mo this evening, had she 
not wanted my assistance and thought that the poor 
child would be comforted by my going,” 

“ Oh ! the poor are always so inconsiderate,” 
said Mr. Chichester, “ coming at such a time of the 
evening as this, just when we were beginning to 
enjoy ourselves,” 

“ I do not think we have any right to think about 
enjoying ourselves, when we hear of a fellow-creature 
in distress,” returned Beatrice ; “ I am sure I should 
feel much happier, too, if Papa would allow me to 
go to-night. I can take Jane with me, and Socrates 
can follow us.” 

“ I will go with you myself, my child,” returned 
her father, “ that is, if Mr. Chichester will excuse 


Bknevolknt Visit. 


31 


us for a few minutes ; the moon is up and the even- 
ing air is delightfully cool and pleasant; the dis- 
tance is quite short, too.” 

“ O ! pray, do not let me detain you, Mr. Evelyn,” 
said the young man, rising; “I should be exceed- 
ingly sorry to interfere with so philanthropic an 
errand — ” and his tone was slightly piqued as he 
spoke, for he did not like to perceive that Beatrice 
so readily sacrificed his company. 

“ My aunt will entertain you till we come back, 
Mr. Cliichester,” said Beatrice, and you will find 
the latest numbers of the European magazines lying 
on the table in the drawing-room, if you choose to 
look them over.” 

Mr. Chichester bowed. 

“ Well ! Beatrice, I suppose you will be bringing 
some horrid disease or other home with you,” said 
her aunt ; “do, pray, put a piece of camphor in your 
mouth, and avoid touching those little dirty Irish 
brats as much as possible. I can ’t think how peo- 
ple of refinement can bear to go into such places — 
for m3" part, I never could !” 

“ O ! Aunt,” said Beatrice, her color rising as she 
spoke, “ how can you say so ? Why did not our 
Saviour give us a special charge to remember and 
take care of the poor for His sake ? Surely, we who 
have received so many of the good things of this 
life, should be willing to help those who have so 


32 Greatness in Little Things. 

few; and beside, poor Biddy’s place, though cer- 
tainly not furnished in the handsomest manner, is 
always clean and neat ; so clean, that even you would 
not be afraid to enter it.” 

“Well ! my dear, my vocation does not lie that 
way. I find enough to do to attend to myself and 
my own concerns, without meddling with those of 
other people. But come, Mr. Chichester, let us 
adjourn to the drawing-room and await the return 
of these truants.” 

As Beatrice turned to leave the room, she sighed 
as she thought that her aunt knew nothing of the true 
happiness of ministering to the wants of others, and 
coming out of the little narrow circle of one’s own 
selfish cares and feelings, and participating in the 
throbs which agitate the pulses of the great world 
without. 

The walk to Hawthorn street seemed but too 
short; the streets Mr. Evelyn and his daughter had 
to traverse lay calm in the quiet moonlight, and 
the few passers-by seemed like ghostly visitants to a 
world asleep; the part of the city they lived inVas 
quite in the suburbs, and many of the houses had 
])leasant gardens-before and around them, where the 
flowers were now shedding forth their sweet odors, 
as if rejoicing in the stillness and the dewy moon- 
light. Branching off from these streets was a stiff- 
looking row of tall brick houses, each of which was 


Tiik French Child. 


33 


tenanted by several families, and in a couple of rooms 
in one of these, lived Biddy Ryan and her six 
children. Softly ascending a narrow staircase, Mr. 
Evelyn tapped at the door, and it was opened with 
a smile of grateful recognition by Biddy herself, who 
had her youngest hope in her arms — “ Sure an’ it’s 
mighty good of ye, sir, to be bringing the young 
lady here to-night,” said she, ‘‘but come in, ye 
must excuse the place looking as it does, but it’s 
but a small place for eight of us. Pat an’ the six 
childer an’ meself, beside the little foreigner lady,” 
and she pointed to a little bed in the corner, where, 
apart from the other children, lay a delicate-looking 
little girl, who Was staring in much astonishment at 
the strangers. In a bed made on the floor lay, fast 
asleep, four rosy little Paddies, the very pictures of 
health, while the eldest boy stood by his father’s 
side, near a small table, apparently having been 
engaged in showing off the progress he had made in 
learning during his father’s absence. The sailor 
rose and bowed, and placed a chair for Mr. Evelyn, 
who entered into conversation with him, while Bea- 
trice approached the little French child’s bed and 
addressed to her a few words of kindness in her 
native tongue : — 

“ Est-ceque vous parlez vrairnent ma langue. 
Mademoiselle. Ah ! que j’en suis bien-aise,” said 
the little one, her dark eyes brightening. 


84 Greatness in Little Things. 

“Yes,” replied Beatrice, in French, “but now you 
must tell me all yon want, and you must not cry 
any more, but be a good child and 1 will try and 
make you happy.” 

“Mais mon pan vie Papa, oil est-il done ? il n’y a 
personne ici que je connais, et je suis si miserable, 
ah ! oui, si, si miserable !” 

“ Your Papa can never come back to you any 
more, my child,” said Beatrice gently, “ God has 
taken him home to another world ; but have you no 
other friends? try and remember all you can and 
tell me, and then, perhaps, we may be able to send 
you back to them some day.” 

The little girl then explained to Beatrice, in sim- 
ple language, that her name was Blanche de Tre- 
monille ; that her father had left ‘ la belle France’ 
about six months before and had come out with her, 
to reside at the house of a brother, who was a mer- 
chant at St. Thomas, with whom be had entered 
into partnership, and he was going to New York 
about some business matters when the fatal accident 
occurred. She said that her mother had died before 
they left France; but that her aunt, in the West 
Indies, was very kind to her and gave her many, 
many pretty things, and that she had a colored nurse 
named Jeannette, to wait upon her, who could speak 
French. 

“Mais, Mademoiselle, ces personnes ici sont si 


Arrangements. 35 

barbares ! ah ! si barbares ! et il fait tant froid dans 
cette maison ! ah ! que ferai-je done?’’ and she burst 
into a passion of tears. 

“ Blanche, Blanche, you must not cry so, that is 
naughty,” said Beatrice, “these poor people have 
been very kind to you, and taken care of you when 
you would have been drowned, or, perhaps, perished 
for want of food. Do you think, if I took you 
home with me, you -would be a good child? You 
see I can speak your language and so can that gen- 
tleman, too,” said she, pointing to Mr. Evelyn, 
“ and we will take care of you till we can send you 
to your aunt — but you must not fret and be discon- 
tented.” 

“ Ah ! Mademoiselle, je ne pleurai pas ; je serai 
tout-a-fait heureuse avec vous.” 

After obtaining her father’s permission and having 
a few words of consultation with Pat and his wife, 
Beatrice arranged that the phaeton should come for 
little Blanche the following morning, as it was evi- 
dent that the poor child would never feel at home 
where she was. So it was settled ; and after com- 
forting Blanche with a promise of sending, or per- 
haps, coming for her herself early in the morning, 
Beatrice followed her father down the staircase,, and 
they went rapidly home. 

We need not enlarge on Mrs. Grant’s exclama- 
tions of surprise and astonishment, when she heard 


86 Greatness in Little Things. 

that the little French child was to become an in- 
mate of her brother’s house — of course, she thought 
it madness and folly, and a plague and an unheard- 
of thing, but finding Mr. Evelyn firm on the sub- 
ject, and, in fact, making very light of the matter 
altogether, she contented herself at last, with saying, 
that she washed her hands of it — and would have 
nothing to do with the child — she w^ould not be 
plagued with her all day— that Beatrice had brought 
it upon herself — and as she brewed, so she must 
bake. 

“Well, Aunt, I do not fancy it will be any great 
charge,” said Beatrice ; “ she is evidently a gentle- 
man’s child, and will know how to behave — and she 
will be quite an amusement to me, now Hetty is at 
school.” 

Mr. Chichester had been sitting on one of the 
lounges, reading, when Beatrice and her father 
entered, and now finding that the little girl’s destina- 
tion seemed disposed of, he begged Beatrice to give 
them some music. 

“Yes do, my darling,” said her father, who was 
refreshing himself with a cup of coffee after liis 
walk, “ give us some of my old favorites, ‘ the Last 
rose of Summer,’ or some airs from Norma.” 

“Hem! if Hetty were at home, we might run the 
chance of getting some good music,” said Mrs. 
Grant; “ 1 do not like Beatrice’s style — it is too slow 


The Controversy. 


37 


and sentimental — I like a good rattling, dashing 
piece, for my part.” 

Beatrice wisely forbore making any reply, and 
her father smiled fondly at her as she seated herself 
at the piano, which Mr. Chichester had already 
opened. She felt ruffled for a moment, but an 
earnest inward petition made her feel all right again, 
and the thought rose in her mind, why should I 
feel annoyed if my music pleases dear Papa? 
Beatrice sang her father’s favorite song, and several 
others, before she finished — and a sweet voice she 
had, soft and melodious — touching the feelings and 
gratifying the taste : it was the kind of music which 
seems to do one’s heart good. She had just finished 
Miss Davis’s beautiful song of ‘ Buth,’ and had 
risen from the piano, and sat down near her father, 
when Mr. Chichester said: 

“ Do you ever attend any of the Catholic churches 
in the city, on Sundays, Miss Evelyn ? I often go 
there becaiise of the beautiful music.” 

“No, I never do,” said Beatrice, “and I own, I 
should be sorry to spend my Sabbaths in going to a 
church where I knew that doctrines contrary to my 
belief would be preached. I am exceedingly fond 
of good music ; but I think Sunday should be spent 
in serving God ; and I should not imagine that 
attending a Homan Catholic church would conduce 
to devotional feelings.” 


38 GpwKa'inkss jn Little Things. 

‘‘Well, liow^ do 3"ou know,” replied Mr. Chiches- 
ter, “ I sometimes feel quite solemnized, when I 
hear the sound of the organ rolling and echoing 
through the magnificent arches of the Cathedral ; 
and the whole service is conducted in a very impres- 
sive manner, and one well calculated to influence 
the senses, and by that means, I suppose, to raise 
the heart to heaven.” 

“ More likely to chain it down to earth, Chiches- 
ter,” said Mr. Evelyn ; “ I should think that amidst 
all that paraphernalia of robes and vestments, and 
all those bowings and genuflexions, people were very 
apt to lose sight of the God who is to be worshiped in 
Spirit and in Truth. I would not attend a Eoman 
Catholic or a Unitarian church, for the same reason 
that I do not attend the theater — because, I believe 
that I should hear error taught there, and that it 
would be inconsistent both with my opinions and 
my feelings to be present.” 

“Well, I think there are many excellent persons 
who are Eoman Catholic^s,” said Mrs. Grant; “I 
have read, myself, of several whose lives were cer- 
tainly most exemplary.” 

“I grant that, Louisa,” said her brother; “I 
believe there have been hundreds of pious persons, 
who were Eomanists ; but it is the system of the 
church to which I object — not so much to particular 
individuals; though these have all held errore, more 


T HE CoNTK(.» V EKSY , 


39 


or less, yet they may have had no opportunity of 
learning the truth and of obtaining a clearer light — 
and thus, doubtless, been accepted before God. 
Wherever an error exists, I would not think lightly 
of that error, but I would deal clemently and gently 
with the persons holding it. What is contrary to 
the Bible, we should withstand with our whole soul. 
Gavazzi’s lectures, in this country, have done much 
to warn people against the encroachments of the 
E-omish Church, and to rouse them to a sense of 
their danger in allowing the Eomanists to gain a foot- 
ing — for give them an inch and they will take an ell.” 

‘^01 Papa, I felt as if I could have listened to 
that noble Gavazzi for hours,” said Beatrice ; his 
eloquence was so impassioned ; his power of argu- 
ment so clear and convincing, and his whole appear- 
ance so striking. O ! it is something great, when a 
man gives up his position in that haughty church, 
to become an exile from his native land, for the sake 
of the glorious Truth, which alone can make poor 
Italy free or enable our own America to remain so !” 
and Beatrice’s eyes kindled with enthusiasm as she 
spoke. 

‘‘Well, for my part,” said Mrs. Grant, “I have 
heard a good many things said against Gavazzi ; I 
must say, I am always cautious to admire : I have 
no doubt the man makes a great deal of money 
going about as he does.” 


40 Greatness in Little Things. 

“ My dear Louisa,” said Mr. Evelyn, “ why what 
an unreasonable woman you are I if you go on con- 
demning everybody in that cynical way, there will 
soon be no one left to admire. Don’t you know, 
that whenever a man puts himself forward in the 
cause of truth, or, in fact, in any good cause whatso- 
ever, a whole swarm of enemies are sure to rise up 
directly and begin to attack his motives and slander 
his conduct ? but in the present case, I should think 
the Padre’s actions spoke for themselves; he has 
given up his home, and his country, and his friends, 
and is now subject to many persecutions and annoy- 
ances ; look, for instance, at the attack made on him 
in Montreal ; and as for money, why, I believe, he has 
several converted priests in London and elsewhere, 
depending on him for their support — and the loss of 
his means of subsistence, in his own country, does 
not go for nothing. I think, as long as it is in our 
power, we should endeavor to judge charitably of 
every man ; and not, because one man comes boldly 
forward from the common herd, and dares to attack 
old prejudices and to speak energetically against 
crying errors, immediately begin calling out: O 
dear! he must be acting from some underhand 
motive — I don’t believe he means what he says.” 

Mr. Chichester then rose to take leave, and when 
he had gone, Mr. Evelyn rang the bell to summon 
the servants to family prayers. These were con- 


P^AMILY FrAYEK. 


41 


ducted, in his household, in a manner suitable to the 
family of a Christian. Mr. Evelyn first read a por- 
tion of Scripture, and explained, in simple and clear 
language, the meaning and practical signification of 
the passage. The whole family then joined in a 
hymn, which Beatrice led, accompanying the voices 
on the piano; and then, all kneeling, Mr. Evelyn 
offered an earnest prayer, expressive of their mutual 
wants and mutual causes of thankfulness to God. 


CHAPTER III. 


TO A CHILD. 

“ Nearer I seem to God, when looking on thee ! 

’Tis ages since He made His youngest star ; 

His hand was on thee as ’twere yesterday, 

Thou later Eevelation ! Silver stream, 

Breaking with laughter from the Lake Divine 
Whence all things flow.” — Alexander Smith. 

^ The next morning, when Beatrice awoke, almost 
her first thought was of little Blanche: poor child, 
she thought, how lonely and strange she must feel. 
I know she will be glad to see me again, and have 
some one to whom she can speak a word. I wish 
Hetty were here, she would be such a lively play- 
fellow for her — poor little motherless thing. With 
these thoughts in her mind, Beatrice rose and 
dressed quickly, and as soon as breakfast was con- 
cluded, she set out for Hawthorn street in the 
phaeton, accompanied by Socrates. 

Little Blanche was watching for her from the win- 
dow; and uttering an exclamation of delight, she 

rushed to the top of the stairs to meet Beatrice and 
( 42 ) 


The Departure. 


43 


threw her arms round her neck, calling her, her 
chere, chere amie. 

“An’ sure, an’ is it strangling the lady ye’d be,” 
said Bridget; “-what for should ye be thinking I 
wouldn’t offer her a cheer meself. Won’t you plase 
to walk in. Miss — sure an’ how should a poor West 
Ingin like that, that can’t spake a word of English 
nor Irish either, know any manners 

“ The poor child was only showing her delight in 
seeing me, Biddy,” said Beatrice, smiling ; “ but I 
will come in while you put up what clothes she has.” 

“ Clothes, Miss! — an’ is it clothes intirely you ’re 
maning ? sorra an’ niver a blessed bit o’ clothes has 
she got, but them you see on her ; it was a 
she was saved from being dhrowned at all, at all ! 
there wasn’t much time to think o’ her clothes.” 

“Really, Biddy, I was very stupid not to think 
of that,” said Beatrice, “ but she looks so nice and 
neat, that I was forgetting that what she has on 
must be all her wardrobe.” 

“Ye see, Mistress,” said Biddy, “they’re good 
and fine clothes, but having but one set of ’em, I 
was oblijed to wash ’em all out yisterday, and sorra 
niver a bit o’ ray childers’ duds would she have on 
her while they vas a-drying, but she jist lay still in 
the bed yonder, looking at me working. Well! 
well! Miss, tho’ her tongue does seem a bit queer 
to me, my heart warms toward the poor child.” 

4 


44 Greatness in Little Things. 

“She cannot thank yon now, Biddy, for Iierself, 
but I will thank you for her, and we will come, some 
day soon, and see you again ; and I will try, before 
then, to teach Blanche enough of English to tell you 
how grateful she feels for all you have done for her.” 

“ An’ sure the poor darlint’s welcome, intirely 
welcome; an’ I wish it was more we could have done 
for her. Come now, shake hands with me before you 
go, little Missy, ye can that do at laste, I suppose,” 
said Biddy. 

“ Serrez-lui la main,” said Beatrice to Blanche, 
who did as she was told, and having received a kiss 
on the forehead from the good motherly Irishwoman, 
she gladly followed Beatrice down stairs to the phae- 
ton, which soon deposited them at home. 

“ Wait a moment, Socrates,” said Beatrice, as 
she jumped lightly out and helped Blanche to get 
down ; “ perhaps I shall want to go into the city to 
do some shopping, so you had better not take the 
harness off President, just yet.” 

“ I ’ll wait here all day long, if Missy likes,” was 
the old man’s reply. 

Mr. Evelyn met them in the hall. “Well, Bee! 
here 3^ou are; I thought it was about time you were 
coming; I wanted to speak with j'ou about some 
arrangements concerning your little charge, before I 
go into the city, where I have to attend a meeting 
of the educational board to-day.” 


Youthful KEMUMiiitANCKS. 45 

Yes! Papa,” said Beatrice, “let us go into the 
library, and there we can settle it all quietly.” 

“Papa!” said little Blanche, heaving a deep sigh, 
“ah! si c’etait mon Papa! mais il etait plus grand 
et il avait les cheveux plus noirs que ce monsieur la, 
et de plus il m’ aurait baise.” 

“No, I am not your Papa, poor little one,” said 
Mr. Evelyn, as he seated himself on a library chair, - 
and took Blanche on his knee, kissing her warmly 
as he did so, “but I will be your Papa, till I 
can send you back to your uncle in the West Indies, 
and I will take care of you, now your own. Papa is. 
dead.” 

“Ah ! mon pauvre Papa,” said Blanche, “je sais 
bien qu’ il est mort, mais je ne puis pas le croire.” 

After some consultation, it was agreed that Bea- 
trice should go into the city with her father to pur- 
chase some clothes for Blanche, and that on their 
return, Mr. Evelyn should write to Monsieur de 
Tremonille, letting him know of his brother’s death 
and his niece’s safety. 

So it was arranged, but Blanche had to go with 
them, for she begged not to be left in that “ grande 
maison ” by herself ; and she did not much fancy the 
appearance of Mrs. Grant, who came into the library 
while she was waiting for Beatrice, who had run 
out of the room to make up her list of commissions — 
and in truth, Mrs. Grant did not receive her very 


46 Grkatnkss in J.ittlk Things. 

cordially, for a cool nod and a survey from head to 
foot, were all Blanche received. 

How a word of kindness wins a child’s heart I 
and how quick children are to perceive the feelings 
of grown-up persons toward them ; they seem to 
know instinctively where there is love and sunshine, 
and to cling to it and open their hearts to its warmth. 

When they returned from the city, it was past 
three o’clock ; Mr. Evelyn had been detained some 
time at the school-meeting. 

Beatrice took Blanche through the house, that she 
might get to feel at home, and then led her into the 
conservatory to see her favorite flowers. Blanche 
said she wished Mademoiselle Evelyn could but see 
the “fleurs magnifiques” of the West Indies, and 
the cocoa-nut trees, and the pretty little humming- 
birds, and the beautiful bright butterflies. Sitting 
down on a rustic seat, Beatrice took Blanche on her 
knee, and sufiered her to expatiate to her heart’s 
content on all the tropical beauties she had seen, 
and on the manner of life at her Aunt’s house, 
which, she said, was up on “les hautes montagnes,” 
and that it was quite pleasantly cool there, and not 
burning hot, as it was on the plains. Beatrice 
began to lose herself in dreams of sunny lands and 
bright verdure, when she remembered that talking 
would not make Blanche’s clothes ; and taking her 
hand she went up stairs and sought Jane, her own 


Vacation Tekm. 


and Mrs. Grant’s maid, witli whose assistance she 
managed to cut out a frock and some of the most 
necessary articles of linen, and leaving Jane part of 
the work, she took the rest down to the drawing- 
room and set busily to work, ensconcing herself in a 
corner of the sofa, plying her needle diligently, while 
Blanche prattled gayly, jumping up every now and 
then as some fresh object of attention in the room 
struck her eye. 

The next day was Saturday, and Hetty was fetched 
from school to spend the Sunday at home. Blanche 
was rather in awe of her at first, but a speedy friend- 
ship was soon formed between them, and indeed, 
there was something of a similarity between them — 
both were naturally impulsive and lively, and both 
full of buoyant spirits. 

Blanche was not the kind of child to be in the 
way, at all; she seemed, instinctively, to know 
when she was not wanted, and would sit quietly by 
herself, with a book of pictures or an old doll of 
Hetty’s, by the hour together: she had a great 
reverence and love for Beatrice ; and never dreamed 
of disputing her word — indeed, her sweet and plia- 
ble disposition seemed to gain her general love, 
and even Mrs. Grant was a little thawed toward 
her. In a few days she began to speak a little 
broken English, which was a source of great amuse- 
ment to them all; aiifi Socrates frequently had tp 


48 Greatness in Little Things. 

dart from the dining-room, while waiting at dinner, 
to give vent to explosions of laughter — he said the 
little French lady was so ^‘pecoollar in her discourse.’’ 

Things rolled quietly on. The next Saturday was 
the commencement of Hetty’s vacation term, and 
gladly was the time looked forward to and welcomed. 
Many were now the delightful excursions and drives 
to the country, enjoyed by the girls ; and the days 
slipped rapidly by, till the time came for an answer 
to be received from the West Indies. 

One morning, Mr. Evelyn entered the breakfast- 
room, holding a letter in his hands, and with some 
concern depicted on his countenance. Seating him- 
self, at the table, he said, he had just heard from a 
gentleman, a merchant of St. Thomas, who said 
that Monsieur Eugene de Tremonville had died the 
preceding week of a rapid attack of fever, and that 
his widow was still so much overcome by his loss, 
that she had felt unable to write, herself, respecting 
his niece, but that she was very anxious to have the 
little girl sent to her as soon as possible, being re- 
solved to adopt her as her own, and that, further, 
could Mr. Evelyn procure any person on whom he 
could place sufficient reliance to trust with the charge 
of the child, they should receive a handsome remu- 
neration for their trouble. 

Blanche’s face looked very grave, when it was 
explained to her that her uncle Eugene was dead 


The LETfER. 


49 


“Ah!” exclaimed she, “ que ferai-je done mainten- 
ant pour un Papa ! and if I go chez ma tante, Mr. 
Evelyn will not be my Papa non-plus.” 

“ God will be your father and your friend, dear 
Blanche,” said Beatrice, “ if you love Him and trust 
in Him.” 

“Yes,” replied Blanche; “and I do love Him, 
for my own real Papa is gone to live with Him, and 
I know he loved Him for he used to talk to me 
about God and Heaven every day.” 

“But really,” said Mr. Evelyn, “I do not see 
what is to be done with the poor child. How can 
I, possibly, find anybody going from Hew York to 
St. Thomas, who would be willing, even for money, 
to take charge of a little girl all that distance ; and, 
beside, I should not like to trust any one with her, 
but an old friend of my own, or unless there were a 
lady going — and such an opportunity might not 
occur for a year or more.” 

“Well, Papa, we will take care of her till such a 
time comes,” said Hetty ; “ I want to teach Blanche 
to speak English well, before she goes.” 

“ Well, my dear,” said Mr. Evelyn, “ I will con- 
sider the subject ; I feel that her widowed aunt will 
want her, and that it would be a great satisfaction 
to me to know that she was safe among her friends. 
Inclosed in the letter,” continued Mr. Evelyn, 
“came a remittance of money, to a considerable 


60 Gkeainkss in Little Things. 

amount, from Madame de Tremonille, and a mes- 
sage from her, begging me to procure with it such 
things as were necessary for her niece, both during 
her sojourn in America and also for the voyage ; 
and expressing a wish, at the same time, that part 
of it might be laid out in purchasing some useful 
present for the family of the poor Irish sailor, whom 
I mentioned, when I wi’ote, as having been so instru- 
mental in saving her life at the time of the ship- 
wreck. I know Blanche will be glad to take a pre- 
sent to poor Pat By an, who was so good to her — 
will she not he said, as he stroked her soft, dark 
curls in passing across the room to the library. 

“ Yes sir,” said Blanche, “ I should be very glad 
to make him and his little children un jpeu corn 
fortable.” 

‘‘ Well then, girls, settle what the present is to 
be, among yourselves ; and let me know the result.” 

“Come Blanche,” said Hetty, as her father left 
the room “ you and I and Beatrice will go and hold 
a grand consultation ; come, let us all go into the 
conservatory — it will be cozy there.” 

Many w^ere the things suggested and then relin- 
quished as unfeasible, by each of the trio ; Blanche’s 
selections, by reason of her youth and inexperience, 
being, of course, the wildest and most unsuitable. 
It w^as finally settled, however, that Pat should have 
a silver w^atch and a new pea-jacket, both of which 


Ride to Town. 


51 


would be useful to him at sea ; that Biddy should 
rejoice in the possession of a brown stuff gown and 
a bright plaid shawl with a neat straw bonnet, and 
that each of the little ones should have a new suit 
of clothes, many of the articles of which could be 
bought ready-made, such as jackets, caps, shoes, 
socks, etc. The whole could be purchased, Beatrice 
said, for fifty dollars ; and this was voted not too 
much, and the committee accordingly adjourned to 
Papa, who highly approved of their choice, but, he 
added, that as he had set aside a larger sum than 
fifty dollars for the family, he should give the rest in 
money to Biddy, to help her to support her little 
ones during Fat’s absence at sea. 

Mr. Evelyn then volunteered to go into the city 
with them, and purchase the articles, as some of 
them, such as the pea-jacket and watch, would 
require his judgment ; the phaeton would just hold 
four, too, so it was agreed they should all go. 

“ Perhaps, Aunt Louisa might want to go into" 
the city to-day,” said Beatrice ; “ I will just run and 
ask her — I should not like us all to go, without say- 
ing anything to her about it.” 

But it was found, that Aunt Louisa did not want 
to go, being very busy up-stairs about some elabor- 
ate piece of transferring ; and the rest of the party 
were soon ready to start. 


5 


62 Greatness in Little Things. 

The different articles were quite satistactorily 
bought, and the money was amply sufficient — but 
as they could not quite guess at the size ot the 
clothes for the two largest boys, they arranged to 
change them if they did not fit. As. the parcels 
were large, it was agreed that they should drive 
back by Hawthorn street, and so all have the plea- 
sure of seeing the presents given. Poor Biddy was 
very much astonished, when, after having tied Pre- 
sident to a post on the side-walk, Mr. Evelyn, and 
his daughters, and Blanche, all went up the narrow 
staircase, each bearing a large bundle. She had her 
youngest child in her arms, a little fair-haired girl 
of some sixteen months old, who nestled her head in 
her mother’s breast at the sight of so many 
strangers. 

‘‘Well, Biddy, where’s Pat to-day?” said Mr. 
Evelyn, as she met them on the top of the stairs. 

“ Faith, sir, an’ its jist in the room he is, taking 
his bit o’ dinner ; and sorra I be to say, that his ship 
is to sail ag’in for them furrin’ parts in ten days — 
short time enough, sir, the blessed darlint that he 
is,” said she, wiping her eyes ; “ but plase walk in, 
sir.” 

“ Well, Biddy,” returned Mr. Evelyn, “ dry your 
eyes, and look what a kind French lady, little 
Blanche’s aunt, has sent Pat, to thank him for 


Blanche’s Gratitude. 53 

taking such care of her niece, after her poor fathers 
death.” 

Pat’s parcel was then unrolled, and unbounded 
was the glee of the family at its contents ; the watch 
seemed to give Pat immense satisfaction ; he said 
it made him feel quite grand, and that it would be 
so useful to him, when his ship should be in port 
any time, and he should get leave to go on shore for 
a few hours, that he might know when to return to 
the vessel again, and “many, many times beside 
that, yer honor,” he continued; “and the jacket, 
too, it’s a raal beauty ! not but what the young lady 
was vastly welcome to what little I could do to help 
her — poor thing, she was bad enough off as it 
was.” 

“Pat, I can say thank you, now,” said little 
Blanche, advancing timidly ; “ thank you for all de 
great kindness you and Biddy have showed to me.” 

She could not trust her English acquirements 
farther. But Biddy was delighted, and kissing her 
fondly, she told her she was “ a raal clever child, 
and would soon talk like any dacent crathur.” 

Beatrice next produced the gown and shawl for 
Biddy, while Blanche held up the bonnet. There 
were fresh exclamations of delight and rapture as 
Bridget held up a width of the gown before her, and 
put on the shawl and bonnet, (which was neatly 
trimmed with a green ribbon). 


54 Greatness in Litile Things. 

‘‘Sure, an’ onld girl, I’ll always think of ye, just 
as you look this blessed minnit, when I ’m far away 
upon the broad says,” said Pat, looking fondly at 
his wife. 

A tear stood in Biddy’s eye — half of son'ow and 
half of joy. Her heart was too full to speak, so she 
only smiled a look of afiection and love at her 
husband. 

The little ones had, ere this, received their share 
from Hetty and Beatrice, and were all busily engaged 
trying on the various articles, most of which fitted 
admirably, and the rest, were to go with their 
mother, next morning, to be changed. Mr. Evelyn 
then slipped a purse, containing fifty dollars, into 
Biddy’s hand ; and willing to leave the family to the 
enjoyment of their treasures, the party bade them all 
farewell, and a few minutes brought them to their 
own door. 

The time of Hetty’s vacation drew to a close, and 
many were the lamentations uttered on her depar- 
ture. It now, of course, became a favorite recrea- 
tion, with Beatrice and Blanche, to drive over to 
see Hetty ; and gladly did the latter welcome the 
sight of President drawing the phaeton up the 
avenue leading to the school. 

Blanche’s education was not neglected by Beatrice, 
and she began to speak English very tolerably in- 
deed, and in her visits to the houses of the poor, and 


Autumn. 


55 


the school, and in as near an approach to whafc may 
be called country-rambles, as they could find in the 
outskirts of a city, Beatrice found her a pleasant 
and useful little companion. When Mrs. Grant 
chose to accompany them, Blanche readily under- 
stood that she was to chatter less than usual ; and 
she trotted along, very demurely, by Beatrice’s 
side. 

Thus the days passed by, till the autumn-time 
crept upon them. It was the beginning of October; 
the trees had assumed those glorious fall-tints, for 
which the American forests are so justly remark- 
able : stores of fruits, for winter hoarding, apples, 
pears and nuts of all kinds, arrived in large quan- 
tities from a small farm which Mr. Evelyn owned in 
the country, and carefully putting these away, sort- 
ing and arranging them, furnished many hours’ 
employment for Beatrice and Blanche. There were 
now pleasant, cozy evenings passed by the side of 
b»ight fires ; Beatrice read aloud, a great deal, to 
Mr. Evelyn, while Mrs. Grant sat and knitted, and 
Blanche made clothes for her doll or drew on her 
transparent slate. Still no escort had been found 
for the latter, though Mr. Evelyn had made persever- 
ing inquiries ; and he had been the more incited to 
do this, as two more letters had been received from 
Madame de Tremonille, begging him to send little 
Blanche home to her, as soon as possible. 


66 Greatness in Little Things. 

One evening found them all thus assembled in the 
drawing-room ; the tea-tray had just been brought 
in, and the urn was steaming and hissing on the 
table. 

“ Papa,” said Beatrice, “ I often feel, when things 
are so pleasant around me, almost too great a sense 
of satisfaction and gratification. I feel as if they 
could not pass away from me ; I do so like to go 
on in just a quiet way, with no particular event 
happening. J ust a quiet round of usefulness, with 
the society of those I love, is all I seem to care for.” 

“Well, my child,” returned her father, “I think 
we cannot be too sensible of God’s many mercies, 
nor enjoy them too thoroughly and gratefully, but 
we must always remember that we hold these things 
by an uncertain tenure ; we must be content to en- 
joy them, and yet content to give them up if it be 
His will ; we should never say, as Job records of 
himself, “ I will die in my nest we must not, as 
it were, cling to a future of our own imagining, and 
say, this one thing will I have, and nothing else. 
It is not wrong to be happy when the Lord gives us, 
as it were, a breathing-time in our journey — but we 
must be able to say with Paul, ‘none of these things 
move me; neither count I my life dear to myself, so 
that I may finish my course with joy.’ When your 
dear mother was alive, my Bee, I used to feel some- 
times almost too happy in her society — she was 


The Miniature. 


57 


finch a gentle, loving friend and companion to me, 
and her habits and tastes were so in accordance 
with mj own, that I never used to picture anything 
else to my mind but a continuance of such bliss, 
and a quiet journey together, hand in hand, down 
the hill of life. Now the Lord has taken her to 
Himself long ago, and yet I am not unhappy — I 
seem to have a brighter and pleasanter prospect 
awaiting me on the other side of the dark river, 
now that she has passed over before me; and when 
I look on this side, I see many blessings to rejoice 
in — and you and my gladsome Hetty are left to 
cheer my old age. You, especially, bring your dear 
mother to my remembrance ; my Bee, you are the 
most like her, both in appearance and manners.” 

Beatrice made no reply, but gentl}^ kissed her 
father’s forehead, for she felt the subject was too 
sacred to admit of much conversation. When she 
went up-stairs to bed that night, Beatrice took from 
her dressing-case a small miniature portrait of her 
mother, which her father had given her some years 
before, and as she gazed on the soft and gentle linea- 
ments, she felt what a loss such a wife must have 
been to him, and she inwardly resolved to devote 
herself more than ever to promote his comfort and 
happiness ; and I am sure it requires no self-denial 
to do this, thought she, as she gazed round her com- 
fortable room. Elegant prints adorned the neatly- 


58 Greatness in Lttti.e Things. 

papered walls; a bright and cheerful chintz covered 
the furniture ; in one comer hung the cage of her 
favorite canaries, and in the other was a well-sup- 
plied book-case, while two or three pretty marble 
statuettes stood on the mantle-piece. Dear Papa 
leaves me nothing to wish for, said Beatrice to her- 
self, and he is so kind a friend and counselor, how can 
I do otherwise than love him t She walked to the 
window, and drawing aside the curtain, gazed at 
the moon and stars, which were shining in unclouded 
brilliancy. Ol how many events these pure stars 
look down on I thought she ; it fills my heart with 
an indefinable feeling of melancholy, admiration 
and humility. How very, very little do the affairs 
of one individual of this earth seem when gazing 
on that immensity of space 1 And yet our Heavenly ' 
Father, who created all, cares for every one of his 
children ; not a hair of their heads falls to the ground 
without Him. 01 that I might be enabled to do 
some work for Him, in my time on earth 1 Lord 1 
help me to be patient and wait ! I have sometimes 
felt as if it were impossible that I should be remem- 
bered by God, after my body shall have passed into 
dust; I, a poor, unknown individual, but one among 
the millions now inhabiting the earth, and, what is 
more, among the millions upon millions who have 
passed into eternity. But I do know and feel that 
it was only the weakness of my faith which ever 


PofirriCAL Effusion. 


59 


gave me these feelings ; that all things are possible 
with God, and that his elect will surely be remem- 
bered by Him “in the day when He maketh up his 
jewels,” Lord, help me ever, in this life, to have 
such an assurance of my being accepted in Jesus, 
that my faith may be always clear and bright. 

Turning from the window, Beatrice sat down at 
h'er little reading-table and opened a manuscript 
book, in which she occasionally noted down her 
thoughts and feelings, or any particular passage 
which, might strike her when reading. She now 
turned over its pages till she came upon some lines 
she had written some time before, when under the 
influence of some such thoughts as those we have 
noticed above : 

“ There is a time our soul is fraught 
With the immensity of thought, 

And hov ’ring on Time’s shelving shore, 

Would fain th’ invisible explore — 

But, dazzled with th’ excess of light, 

Must shade itself in th’ infinite. 

' In such an hour we frame our way, 

' ! Far from the turmoil of the gay. 

Beneath a wood, where stately trees 
Bend o’er still waters in the breeze — 

Like guardian shades, the fiowers above, 

"" Which odors breathe in grateful love. 

There, lying on a mossy bed. 

We rest our world-worn, aching head. 

Gazing on fretted roof, bathed through 
With rays from Heaven’s own boundless blue. 


00 


Greatness in J^ittle Things. 


Fain woiild we husli the thoughts that sweep, 
Across the soul’s storm-ruffled deep; 

The dread immensity of calm, 

Fills our weak hearts with vain alarm. 

’T is I! ’tis I, it ever must be I, 

On through the mazes of eternity! 

I am but one, from all that throng. 

That hurrying press the streets along: 

Can I, a speck, forever stay, N 
Cared for and known, nor pass away 
To that dim land, where, all forgot. 

They ’d say he was, but he is not # 

O! false, weak heart, the very flowers. 

The stream, the trees, the leafy bowers. 

In gladsome, all-melodious voice, 

Seem lovingly to say, rejoice 
In Him who gave us endless days. 

That we might lose ourselves in praise, 

In Him alone our life can bo 
A bliss through all eternity; 

When lost in Him we ever move, 

Rejoicing in His boundless love.” 


Beatrice sank into a kind of reverie, and sat lean- 
ing her head on her hand, till she was roused by 
hearing the clock of a neighboring church toll the 
hour of eleven. She stole quietly into the little 
dressing-room'- adjoining, where, on a low cot-bed, 
Blanche lay in the deep, quiet sleep of childhood. 
Giving one affectionate glance at the little sleeper, 
Beatrice returned, leaving the door of communica- 
tion between the rooms open, as was her custom, in 
case Blanche should awake in the night. Then 


y 


The Fire. 


61 


extinguishing her candle, she softly drew aside the 
window curtain and allowed the calm moonlight to 
stream into the room before she knelt down to pour 
forth her soul in prayer to her Heavenly Father. 
She felt, what I dare say many of my readers may 
have experienced, that there is something in the 
sweet moonlight which enables one, if I may say so, 
the more easily to bring the thoughts to hold com- 
munion with God. Perhaps it is that the pure 
calmness of the light seems to hush and tranquilize 
the rebellious senses, and enable one the better to 
curb the wanderings of the thoughts. Perhaps it is 
because sin, and corruption, and decay seem less 
palpably present with us, and that therefore the soul 
that clings to the Lord, who is called “ the Author of 
light,” in such an hour, appears to obtain a clearer 
and more precious view of Ilis beauty and fullness. 

There is a mysterious feeling of stillness and 
quietness through a house, when every one has 
retired to bed. How every sound strikes on the earl 
There is the clock ticking in the hall ; how loud it 
sounds ! There is a cricket chirping in the kitchen ; 
how distinctly it is heard up-stairs ! Even the very 
movements of our own body seem almost to startle 
ns — to be doubly conscious. 

Everything had long been silent in her father’s 
house, when Beatrice crept into bed that night. 
After two or three hours of quiet slumber, she 


62 Greatness in Ltitle Things. 

dreamt that she was in the cabin of a ship at sea, 
and that it was so small and confined that she could 
not breathe — it seemed as if the close air was stifling 
her, and starting uneasily in her sleep, she awoke 
slowly to the consciousness that her room was filled 
with smoke. Yes, thick volumes of smoke filled 
both that room and the adjoining one, and, almost 
suffocating, Beatrice jumped up, and hastily throw- 
ing a dressing-gown around her, she rushed into the 
dressing-room and waking Blanche, she enveloped 
her in a shawl, and ran quickly along the corridor 
to her father’s room. Knocking quickly and loudly 
at the door, she called : “ Papa ! Papa ! dear Papa ! 
the house is on fire ! the house is on fire. Papa ! oh, 
do come !” Mr. Evelyn was quickly aroused, and 
commanding his daughter and little Blanche to 
remain perfectly quiet in his room, for a few mo- 
ments, he ran to arouse his sister and the servants. 
Blanche clung tremblingly to Beatrice, scarcely yet 
awake, and hardly knowing what to fear. In a very 
short time footsteps were heard coming along the 
passage, and Mr. Evelyn entered, followed by Jane, 
who looked very pale, and had a bundle of clothes 
under her arm. 

“Come, my darling, here are some wraps, such 
as we have been able to procure in the hurry,” said 
Mr. Evelyn to Beatrice; “make haste and put them 
round Blanche and yourself, and then follow me 


The Escape. 


63 


down the back-stairs. The house is indeed on fire, 
my child — the flames are raging furiously in the 
front ; I scarcely think we shall save anything, but 
I must first see you and your aunt safe before I look 
to anything else. Socrates is gone to give the alarm 
and get the fire-engines.” 

Beatrice and Blanche were ready in a moment, 
with Jane’s nimble assistance, and just then Mrs. 
Grant joined them, looking very much frightened. 
Bidding them all follow hiup quickly, Mr. Evelyn 
led them all out of the house, and hastily passed up 
the street, supporting Mrs. Grant, while Beatrice 
and Blanche, with the two female servants, followed 
behind. The glare already illuminated the sky, and 
the fire-bells were tolling in all parts of the city. 
O ! how strangely and unexpectedly do events 
happen! thought Beatrice — but she only pressed 
Blanche’s hand, and the latter was too much lost in 
wonder and excitement to talk. 

At about two squares from their burning house 
Mr. Evelyn stopped, and hastily pulled the door-bell 
of a large red brick dwelling, where their minister, 
Mr. Grey, resided. After the lapse of a minute, an 
upper window was opened, and a voice inquired, 
“ Who is there ?” 

^‘A friend in distress, Mr. Grey,” said Mr. Eve- 
lyn ; “ but do pray come down and let us in, and I 
will tell you all about it.” 


64 : Greatness in Little Things. 

The window was quickly shut, and in a few mo- 
ments the minister, himself, was heard unbolting 
and unbarring the street-door. 

A few words from Mr. Evelyn sufficed to explain 
the nature of things. 

“ Come into the drawing-room,” said Mr. Grey, 
“and establish yourselves as you best may: my 
wife and Walter will be down directly to see if they 
can render you any assistance, and I will call up 
the servant-girl to kindle a fire immediately” — and 
the good man bustled about, and looked so sympa- 
thizing, that our poor wanderers felt quite comforted. 

“Well then, sir, I shall leave them all under your 
protection,” said Mr. Evelyn; “ I must go back to 
try and save what things I can. The back of the 
house was still untouched, when we left.” 

Mr. Grey then lit a candle on the mantle-piece, 
and hurried out of the room to make further prepar- 
ations for their comfort, and almost directly his good, 
motherly wife, appeared. Aflectionately kissing 
Beatrice, she expressed her warm sympathy with 
them in their trouble, saying, at the same time, that 
she was very glad they had come to her, and she 
would make them all as comfortable as she possibly 
could. The servant-girl lit a cheerful fire in the 
grate, and took possession of Mr. Evelyn’s servants, 
and carried them off to the kitchen regions as her 
guests. 


Walter Grey. 


65 


‘‘I hear Walter coming down the stairs, dear 
Beatrice,” said Mrs. Grey, “ but you need not mind 
him ; I assure you you look quite presentable in that 
hood and cloak. He would not like to be away from 
the fire, in case he could be of any use: beside, 
you and he are old friends, you know.” 

Beatrice colored slightly as Walter Grey came 
into the room ; and hastily shaking hands with her, 
said, there was no time for ceremony then, but that 
he had just come in to ask her if there were any 
things she was particularly anxious to save from the 
fire, in case it should be in his power to get at them. 

Beatrice hurriedly named a few articles, among 
which was her dressing-case containing her mother’s 
picture. ^ 

“ Thank you ! thank you !” she continued, as he 
turned to leave the room ; “but pray do not expose 
yourself to any danger on my account ; and oh ! 
Mr. Grey, do pray look after my dear father, and 
see that he is careful of himself.” 

“ Never fear, never fear,” said the young man, 
and rushing up the street, he was out of sight in a 
moment. 

The time seemed so dull and so fraught with 
anxiety while waiting at Mrs. Grey’s ! She was 
very kind to be sure, but it felt so strange to Beatrice 
to be sitting there at two o’clock in the morning, and 
to think of what was going on at her own beloved 


66 Greatness in Little Things. 

home. Little Blanche soon went to sleep on the 
sofa, comfortably wrapped up in a large shawl, and 
a cup of hot tea was brought in for Mrs. Grant and 
Beatrice. Twice they all went to the top of the 
house to see how th5 fire was gaining ground, 
Alas I the prospect was not very satisfactory. There 
seemed to be but little left of their own dwelling but 
the bare walls, at the last visit ; and two of the ad- 
joining houses had caught fire, and the people in 
them were to be seen hurriedly moving their furni- 
ture and running about in great confusion, while the 
roofs of the neighboring houses were covered with 
people — some of whom were mere lookers-on, while 
others were engaged in covering any wood-work 
which was exposed, with wet carpets and blankets, or 
in extinguishing any large sparks which might have 
fallen near them. Two or three times old Mr. Grey 
came down to report progress to them. He said 
that a great number of tfeeir things had been saved 
and had been carried, as the night was fine, to an 
adjoining lot, with Socrates and another man left to 
guard them ; that Mr. Evelyn’s house, being soon 
past recovery, he and his own son, Walter, were 
busy helping those whose dwellings had caught fire 
the latest — and of these there were now several — 
and before four o’clock in the morning, nearly half 
a square had been burnt. 

A little after that hour the gentlemen came home. 


Sickness. 


67 , 

Beatrice ran to the door to meet her father, and 
found him in a miserable plight, drenched to the 
skin with water from the hose of the engines, and 
shivering from head to foot. She was almost too 
thankful to see him again, to notice this at first, but 
Mr. Grey said: “Come now. Miss Beatrice, your 
Papa is safe, thank God, but he must go to bed 
directly and get a good hot bath, or he will be ill, 
and that will be worse than the fire.” 

Beatrice looked up anxiously in her father’s face, 
but he assured her that it was nothing — that he had 
certainly got a thorough wetting, and that standing 
in the cool night air had made him feel chilly, but 
that he hoped to be quite right again soon. 

The party all needed rest certainly, so a mattress 
was spread on the drawing-room fioor for Mrs. Grant 
and Beatrice, and a bed-room was quickly got ready 
for Mr. Evelyn, and ere very long silence reigned 
through the house. 

But Beatrice could only toss restlessly over, and 
think of the events of the night with mingled thank- 
fulness and pain — thankfulness for their preserva- 
tion, and pain when she thought that the home in 
which she had spent so many, many happy hours 
existed no longer. Morning dawned ere she could 
compose lier mind to anything like a sufficiently 
tranquil state, even for a troubled sleep, and when 

she again awoke the sun shone brightly through the 
6 


68 Greatness in Little Things. 

chinks of the closed shutters. The first sight of 
where she was, shot a pang of regretful remem- 
brance through her heart as the circumstances which 
brought her there forced themselves upon her recol- 
lection. She heard kind Mrs. Grey running nimbly 
about the house, apparently engaged, with the assist- 
ance of the servant, in preparing breakfast for her 
large party of unexpected guests ; and presently 
came a gentle tap at the door, and her good-natured 
face peeped in, and seeing Beatrice was awake, she 
softly crept into the room, and kissing her, told her 
that Socrates had arrived with as many of their 
clothes as could be saved in the hurry and confu- 
sion. These, she said, were more than might have 
been expected, as the sheets and quilts had been 
hastily torn ofi* the beds and filled with the contents 
of drawers and closets and then thrown out in large 
bundles to the stand ers below. 

‘‘Mr. Grey is dressed and gone into Mr. Evelyn’s 
room, to see how he is this morning : so you must 
all of you come quickly up-stairs to my dressing- 
room and get ready for breakfast, for Ann will not 
like it if we let her mufiins and coffee get cold.” 

Mrs. Grant and Blanche were now awake, and 
following Mrs. Grey up-stairs, the whole party were 
soon comfortably dressed — any little deficiency in 
their wardrobe, or in the appurtenances of the toilet, 
being supplied by her with ready good-nature. 


Beatrice’s Anxiet\\ 


69 


Beatrice’s anxious tliouglits were with her father, 
for she feared the effects of the past night’s exposure 
on his constitution, which was naturally none of the 
strongest. Mr. Grey, however, was still with him 
in his room, so she did not like to go herself, at 
present, to ask how he felt. Still she was very 
uneasy, and the uneasiness was increased, when a 
few moments afterward she heard Mr. Grey’s voice 
at the top of the stairs softly calling Socrates, who 
was at that moment passing through the hall, with 
a tray of breakfast-things in his hands. 

“Me coming directly, Massa Grey,” was the 
reply; and after a few whispered words from Mr. 
Grey, Socrates went quickly out of the hall-door. 

Hastily summoning her resolution, Beatrice ran 
out and caught Mr. Grey before he reached her 
father’s room. 

“ O ! Mr. Grey, do pray tell me is there anything 
the matter with dear Papa ?” inquired she, breath- 
lessly ; “ is he very ill ? oh ! let me see him at 
once” — and Beatrice looked up beseechingly in Mr. 
Grey’s face. 

“ My dear young lady, compose yourself,” said the 
good minister, “ I cannot conceal from you that your 
father appears to have taken a very severe cold, and 
that at the present moment he has so much fever 
about him, that I thought it right to send for Dr. 
Morton. 


70 Gkeatness in Little Things. 

“But come in, my dear, and sec him for yourself 
— he will be comforted by seeing you.” 

Without speaking, Beatrice quickly but softly 
opened the door, and advancing to the bed, threw 
her arms round her father’s neck, and begged him, 
with tears in her eyes, to tell her if he really felt so 
very ill. 

“ Do not be alarmed, my precious one,” replied 
Mr. Evelyn; “I believe I have caught a severer 
cold than I anticipated, but I feel thankful to be in 
the hands of such kind friends, and above all to see 
you safe and well, and have you with me to nurse 
me. Dr. Morton will be here presently, and I dare 
say I shall soon be well again. But remember, my 
Bee, we are in the Lord’s hands, let him do with me 
what seemetli Him good.” 

“ O ! Papa, how burning hot your cheeks and 
hands are,” said Beatrice, anxiously ; “ is there 
nothing I can do for you ?” 

“ I think I should like a cup of tea, dear child,” 
said her father, “ if you would fetch it for me.” 

Beatrice ran down stairs, and having given her 
father the tea, she sat down by the window to await 
the doctor’s coming. It was not long before his 
buggy drove up to the door, and he came up to Mr. 
Evelyn’s room, accompanied by Mr. Grey. Beatrice 
left them both with her father, and went down to the 
room where the rest of the family were assembled 


The Bible. 


71 


at breakfast. Blanche jumped up to meet her 
with a glad smile of welcome on her face, and as 
Beatrice took her seat at the table, Mrs. Grant 
inquired after her brother’s health, saying, she sup- 
posed, he had only taken a slight cold. 

“ Indeed, Aunt,” said Beatrice, “ it seems more, 
I am afraid, than a slight cold. He looks so feverish 
1 cannot help feeling very uneasy, but Dr. Morton 
is with him now.” 

“Well, I will go up and see him when the doctor 
comes down,” said her aunt. 

Beatrice then turned to Walter, and thanked him 
warmly for his exertions in their behalf during the 
previous night. 

“ I only wish I could have done more,” replied 
Walter; but I am glad to say I secured your dress- 
ing-case, Miss Evelyn. See, there it stands,” he con- 
tinued, pointing to a small table near the window ; 
“and there are a fewbooks beside, which, I thought, 
you might value, your large Bible among others.” 

“Oh, my dear old Bible,” said Beatrice; “I 
should indeed have been sorr}^ to lose that — it was 
dear Mamma’s gift to me before she died, when I 
was quite a little girl. It was so thoughtful of you 
to bring it, Mr. Grey, I am so very, very much 
obliged to you.” 

Walter colored with pleasure, he was only too 
glad to have been able to please Beatrice Evelyji. 


72 Greatness in LriTLE Things. 

They had known each other from childliood, though 
frequently, of late, months had elapsed without any 
communication between them, as Walter had been 
at college, studying for a physician. Nothing had 
ever, as yet, passed between them beyond the inter- 
change of friendly feelings and sentiments, and yet 
there had been on both sides an almost unacknowl- 
edged admiration of each other’s character. Walter 
had long seen what a gentle, loving, and yet noble 
disposition Beatrice possessed, and had often thought 
to himself, what a wife she would make to any one 
worthy of her; but his own worldly prospects were 
as yet, he thought, too unsettled to admit of his 
thinking of himself in the light of her lover. Still, 
he allowed himself to cherish'’ some ray of hope for 
the future, when he saw that Beatrice’s affections 
appeared still to be unengaged. Duriijg the time 
of Mr. Chichester’s frequent visits to her father’s 
house, Walter had held still more aloof, but he had 
lately received a hint from his mother that Mrs. 
Grant had told her, in confidence, that there was no 
affection existing toward Mr. Chichester, on Bea- 
trice’s part, and he therefore felt again encouraged 
to hope for the best. Walter was not one of those 
miserably weak-minded young men, who can be 
engaged to different girls several times in the course 
of their bachelor lives, and have these engagements 
broken off without any effect on their spirits ; the 


A Chsistian Youth. 


73 


mere passing admiration having certainly taken no 
hold on their hearts ^ — if they have such things as 
hearts at all. A man who can love so lightly and 
so frequently, never loves strongly and devotedly — 
and Walter was none of these. He bestowed his 
affection and admiration carefully, and it was be- 
cause he placed before his mind such a high stand- 
ard of excellence that few characters could win his 
love. It was not that he was cold or unimpassioned. 
Ho! he had a depth of earnest love in his heart, 
that triflers, who have been corrupted by the world 
and its ways, can never dream of; but he formed to 
himself an ideal image of the woman he could 
thoroughly love, and till this ideal should be embod- 
ied, his heart could not be given. Walter was a 
Christian young man, in the true sense of that word. 
He was not one of those who think that youth is 
the time to give free vent to every sinful passion, and 
to plunge into every excess of pleasure ; that young 
men must be young men, and “sow their wild oats.” 
Hollow-hearted falsehood and specious lies! He 
knew that God formed no man under the necessity 
of sinning; and his soul recoiled from participating 
in the sinful (so-called) pleasures which led astray 
so many of his fellow-students at the college. He 
knew and felt that a sin, though it may be forgiven 
by God, can never, in one sense, be forgotten ; and 
that the mind that has been vitiated and polluted 


74 Greatness in Litti.e Things. 

can never shake itself as clean and clear again, in 
this life, as though it had never been defiled. If 
Walter ever got laughed at by his companions, and 
called a “ miff,” and a “ slow fellow,” for not joining 
a drinking or card party, he was too much of a true 
hero to let idle jeers influence his conduct ; and he 
was so lively and good-humored, and so generous 
and kind in his disposition, that even the worst of 
them were generally compelled, before long, to ac- 
knowledge that “Walter Grey was not such a bad 
fellow, after all.” 

Perhaps Walter was already aware that Beatrice 
approached more nearly to his ideal, than any one 
else he knew ; and such a character as his was just 
calculated to win her esteem and admiration, but he 
had not yet sought her as a lover, and she thought 
of him only as a friend. 

Perhaps it may appear strange that Walter should 
not have made choice of his father’s profession — that 
of a minister ; but to say the truth, he wished to 
bind himself to no party, which he thought would 
be involved by becoming a minister among any 
particular denomination. He thought that there were 
some errors existing among all parties and sects, and 
whether a man were an Episcopalian, a Baptist, a 
Methodist, or a Presbyterian, it mattered not, Wal- 
ter thought, so long as he was a Bible Christian — 
one who knew the Saviour, and was united to him 


The Fever. 


75 


in the common brotherhood of Christian fellowship. 
After maturely considering these subjects, young 
Grey decided on studying ph3^sic, as being a useful 
and philanthropic occupation, and also as affording 
him abundant opportunities, while attending the 
bedside of the sick and dying, to administer likewise 
to their spiritual necessities and to point the heart, 
trembling and impressible from sickness, to the 
Redeemer of mankind and the Father of mercy. 
He had not, as yet, quite finished his academical 
career, but when he should have completed it, he 
hoped to obtain a sphere of usefulness in a small 
village, about twenty miles from the city of Hart- 
ford, where some friends of his mother resided, 
and which had lately been pointed out to him as 
greatly in want of efficient medical assistance, and 
as, therefore, presenting a promising opening for a 
beginner. 

But we have made a long digression for the pur- 
pose of introducing our friend Walter to our readers, 
and we must not forget that we left Beatrice Evelyn 
anxiously awaiting the entrance of the doctor to 
report upon the state of her father’s health. 

When he did come, the account was unsatisfac- 
tory. The symptoms were bad, and the doctor said 
he should call again at noon. Ere that hour, how- 
ever, Mr. Evelyn was delirious with fever, and kept 

calling for Beatrice to come to him, though she was 

7 




76 Greatness in Little Things. 

at that time sitting by him, mute with grief. Mrs. 
Grant, too, stood at the foot of the bed, willing in- 
deed, but unable to render any assistance. 

After some time passed in silence, broken only 
by the voice of the sufferer, Beatrice sank down on 
her knees in prayer by the bedside, and then rising 
and forcing herself to be calm, she said: 

“Aunt, something must bo done; do pray let us 
rouse ourselves and try and act, and not give way 
under this affliction, which our Heavenly Father 
has seen fit to send us. It is quite impossible that 
we can allow Mrs. Grey to be burdened any longer 
with so many additional inmates. There are the two 
servant-girls and Socrates in the kitchen, and then 
ourselves and little Blanche, beside dear Papa. It 
must not be permitted for a single night. She is so 
kind that I know she will never say a word till we 
mention it; do. Aunt, try and propose some plan.” 

“Keally, Beatrice, I feel qqite incapable of think- 
ing,” replied Mrs. Grant, in an agitated tone, “ my 
nerves are in such a distressing state from tho fire 
last night, and now seeing my dear brother lying 
there so ill. Propose a plan yourself, dear child ; 
you have less sensitiveness than I.” 

Beatrice’s lip quivered with emotion, as she 
thought how little her Aunt understood her, but 
after pausing a moment or so she said, calmly: “ I 
think, Aunt, you should immediately take a small 


Tempokary Home. 


77 


furnished house as near this as possible, and go there 
yourself, with Blanche and the servants. Of course 
nooving dear Papa is quite out of the question, so I 
will remain here and nurse him, for I could not pos- 
sibly leave his side now, and you will come and see 
him as often as you can.” ^ 

Mrs. Grant acquiesced in this arrangement, and 
it was further decided that Hetty should be sent for 
from school, as she would be wanted in a thousand 
ways, and among others to take charge of Blanche, 
who, Beatrice knew, would be quite alarmed at the 
thought of being left alone with Mrs. Grant. 

“If you will remain here with poor Papa, Aunt,” 
said Beatrice, “ I will go down stairs and tell Mrs. 
Grey of our plan.” 

As Beatrice had conjectured, Mrs. Grey at first 
remonstrated against the separation of the party, at 
least for the present, but she was finally prevailed 
on to consent, and Walter, who just then came into 
the room, volunteered to go in search of suitable 
lodgings. 

While he was gone. Dr. Morton arrived, and 
Beatrice’s fears were somewhat allayed by his pro- 
nouncing her father to be in no immediate danger. 

After about an hour Walter Grey came back, 
having been successful in his search for a house, 
and before dusk, Mrs. Grant and the rest of the 


78 Greatness: in Little Things. 

party were safely installed there, with such effects 
as had been preserved from the fire. 

Beatrice was sitting quietly by her father’s bedside, 
in the afternoon, when Walter softly rapped at the 
room-door. She went to open it. “ Miss Evelyn,” 
said he, “ President an^d the phaeton were sent up to 
a livery stable, about a square from here, last night, 
as soon as they could be rescued from the stable ; 
do you not think it would be a good plan if I were 
to go in the phaeton and fetch your sister Hetty ? — 
I am sure she will be gladly welcomed in Curzon 
street by one party at least, for I left little Blanche 
looking very tearful at being separated from you.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Grey, you are only too kind,” 
said Beatrice, “ I should indeed feel very grateful 
if you would go for dear Hetty ; and pray break to 
her all that has happened as gently as possible. Poor 
child 1 she will be so grieved. And tell her, Mr. 
Grey, to bring a good supply of clothes with her ; it 
does not seem likely that she will be able to go back 
to school again at present. But stay : perhaps I 
had better write her a note.” 

“I am sure that is not necessary,” said Walter; 
“ I feel that I can tell her all you wish ; and if I go 
directly I shall be back before dark.” 

“ This house will be on your way from the school 
to Curzon street,” said Beatrice; “stop on your 


Walter’s Journey. 79 

return, please, and let me say a few words to dear 
Hetty.” 

Anything and everything you wish,” replied 
Walter, “ I only wish there were something else you 
could tell me to do for you. God bless you, dear 
Miss Evelyn ;” and taking her hand, he pressed it 
respectfull}’ to his lips, and without venturing an- 
other look, he turned and ran down stairs, and Bea- 
trice heard him shut the hall-door almost immedi- 
ately afterward , 


CHAPTER IV. 


“ Oh ! weary hearts I oh, slumbering eyes ! 

Oh 1 drooping souls, whose destinies 
Are fraught with care and pain, 

Ye shall be lov’d again.” — L ongfellow. 

“ There is a fragrant blossom, that maketh glad the garden of the 
heart. * * * 

“ Memory and absence cherish it, as the balmy breathings of the 
South. 

“ Its sun i5 the brightness of affection and it bloometh in the bor- 
ders of Hope.”— Tupper’s “ Proverbial Philosophy.” 

The days passed wearily and heavily along, and 
still there was but little amendment in Mr. Evelyn’s 
health. On the third day of his illness, however, 
the fever comparatively left him and he again knew 
those around him ; but he was in a pitiable state of 
weakness, and was suffering great pain in his chest 
and throat. Beatrice’s spirits drooped, and yet she 
showed it as little as possible before the kind friends 
by whom she was surrounded. Mr. and Mrs. Grey 
were untiringly attentive and thoughtful, and when- 
ever Walter had an opportunity, he was on the alert 
to do anything that might promote her comfort ; two 

nights he sat up with Mr. Evelyn, his mother 
(80) 


Mk. Evelyn's Uecovery. 81 

insisting upon Beatrice’s going regularly to bed, 
assuring her that she would make herself seriously 
ill it she did not do so. Mrs. Grant and Hetty came 
every day to see them ; they seemed to be going on 
tolerably comfortably in the new house. They had 
dismissed one of the servant-girls — Jane and So- 
crates being sufficient to attend on so small a party. 

At the end of ten days, Dr. Morton pronounced 
Mr. Evelyn decidedly better, and in a short time he 
was able to sit up; still a hard, hacking cough hung 
about him, and the doctor said it would never do for 
him to spend the winter in New York, but that he 
must go to a warmer climate, when he should be 
strong enough to bear the journey. The first even- 
ing that her father was well enough to come down 
stairs and sit in an easy-chair by the drawing-room 
fire, was a happy one for Beatrice. She drew a low 
ottoman and sat down at his feet — 'Mr. Grey read 
aloud to them while his wife sat and worked, and 
Walter sat at a small table near the window, copying 
some anatomical drawings. 

When Mr. Grey had finished reading, Mr. Evelyn 
said that an idea had crossed his mind that morning 
which he wished to subject to the vote of his assem- 
bled friends. 

‘‘ You know,” he continued, ‘‘ that the little French 
girl, Blanche de Tremonille is only awaiting an 
escort to be sent home to her aunt at St. Thomas. 


82 (treatness in J-.irTLE Things. 

Now, could not my sojourn in a warm climate be 
passed there, and thus both purposes be answered 'i 
I think I should enjoy the trip, and I never suffer 
much from sea-sickness.” 

“Weill papa,” said Beatrice, “I have only one 
stipulation to make, and that is, that I go with yon ; 
of course, you know I must go, to take care both of 
you and Blanche.” 

“Weill my bonny Bee, but what do our friends 
think of the place ?” 

“ I think, my dear sir,” said Mr. Grey, “that if 
you must leave us, the plan is an exc*ellent one. I 
have heard that the climate in the high lands of the 
island is not disagreeably hot, and please God, we 
shall hope to see you among us all in the spring, 
looking yourself again.” 

A shade of disappointment passed over Walter’s 
face at the idea of Beatrice’s departure ; he felt as if 
he were now going to lose her altogether, and dur- 
ing the next few minutes of conversation among the 
rest of the party, his thoughts were busily engaged 
in trying to discover a suitable way of saying some- 
thing to Beatrice on the subject. Well, it was 
finally arranged, that they should sail in one week^s 
time, should Mr. Evelyn’s strength permit it — that 
Mrs. Grant should keep house with Hetty till their 
return, the latter being taken away from school, at 
least for the present. Hetty was not very well 


The Brigantine. 


83 


pleased when she was told, next day, of this arrange- 
ment, but Mrs. Grey comforted her by telling her 
that she must come and see her every day, and that 
she would often take her nice walks to see her poor 
people, etc., and Hetty declared she should write an 
immensely long letter to Beatrice every week, and 
tell her all her thoughts and doings. 

Two comfortable cabins, adjoining each other, 
were taken for the party, in a pretty little brigan- 
tine, bound for St. Thomas, with a cargo of shingles, 
which was to sail in nine days. One of these cabins 
contained two berths, which were for Beatrice and 
little Blanche, and it was arranged that Beatrice 
should go down, the following da^^, with Mrs. Grey 
and Walter to inspect their accommodation. Mr. 
Grey also volunteered to be of the party, so about 
ten o’clock in the morning they all set off. A good 
part of the way lay through crowded wharves, and 
very bustling streets, so that, although Walter was 
walking with Beatrice, he could find but little op- 
portunity of speaking to her. 

A boat came off to take them all on board, and 
the day was so fine and clear that they remained 
there some time, inspecting the ship, which was 
found to be in all respects what could be wished, 
and they much enjoyed the delightful prospect 
which lay before them. The harbor was studded 
with ships of all nations, and a perfect forest of 


84 Greatness in Little Things. 

masts lay close to the shore. Walter was leaning 
over the side of the vessel with Beatrice, occasion- 
ally addressing a few words of conversation to her. 
Anxious thoughts of “now or never” filled his 
breast ; he wanted to say something, and yet he felt 
as though he were hardly confident enough respe5t- 
ing her feelings toward him to say too much. He 
raised himself and walked slowly two or three times 
up and down the deck, and then again approaching 
Beatrice, he said : — 

“Do you know. Miss Evelyn, I have quite a spite 
against this ship 

“Have you?” replied Beatrice, smiling, “I think 
it is a very pretty one.” 

“Yes, but it will soon take you so far away from 
us, and we shall feel so very lunely without you ! 
you do not know how lonely.” 

Beatrice, still leaning over the side of the vessel, 
made no reply. She looked down at the clear blue 
water, which came rippling softly against the sides 
of the ship, and she felt that she too was sorry to 
part from Walter Grey, but she did not exactly 
know how to tell him so. 

“ Miss Evelyn,” said Walter, “might I ask you to 
think of me sometimes, when you are away ? It 
would be such a comfort to me to know that I was 
not forgotten by yon V 

“ Then you shall have that comfort, if it is any,” 


Walter and Beatrice. 


85 


said Beatrice, blushing slightly, “you have been so 
kind, both to dear Papa and myself, that I cannot 
easily forget you.” 

“Kind!” said Walter, in a low voice, “if you 
only knew the pleasure it has been to me even to be 
near you ! I have wished I could spend my whole 
life in your service 1” 

“ You must devote your life to God’s service and 
not mine, Walter,” said Beatrice, gently. 

“But will you — oh, could you I — promise me to 
be my help and friend — my companion through life ?” 
said Walter, earnestly, and he bent toward her, and 
took her hand in his. 

Beatrice made no reply for some time, but stood 
averting her face and gazing down at the sea. At 
last she said : 

“1 must devote myself to dear Papa now — I 
cannot tell if I may ever come back again to Amer- 
ica. But, Walter, 1 will be no one else’s but your’s, 
should God spare our lives to see each other again.” 

“ My own Beatrice, God bless you for this,” said 
Walter; “may our Heavenly Father send His bless- 
ing upon us both, and keep you safe to return to me 
again.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Grey just then came up from the 
cabin, and they all returned on shore. That even- 
ing Beatrice told her father of Walter’s proposal, 
and asked his blessing on their engagement. 


86 Greatness in Littlit Things. 

“My child,” said Mr. Evelyn, “I thank the Lord 
for it with my whole heart. Walter Grey has long 
had my sincere affection and esteem. He is an 
excellent young man, and I know, my darling, that 
he will make you a kind husband. You will now 
have a protector, in case I should be taken away 
from you, and the thought of what you and my little 
Hetty would do, if I were gone, has often been a 
burden on my mind during my hours of sickness ; 
but I cast my care on my Heavenly Father, and He 
has taken it from me. Promise me, my Bee, that 
you will always fill a mother’s place to your little 
sister.” 

“ Indeed I will, dear Papa,” said Beatrice, throw- 
ing her arms round her father’s neck ; “ but do not 
talk in that way ; we all hope to see you quite well 
and strong again, after you have been to the sunny 
land. Do not let us prognosticate evil unnecessari- 
ly ; it makes me feel so unhappy. O ! I could not 
spare my own Papa !” she continued, laying her 
cheek fondly against his. 

“Well, my Bee, I am certainly much better, and 
I would not willingly distress you, my child ; but 
we must be prepared, whenever the messenger shall 
come, you know.” 

“ Yea, Papa,” was her reply ; and gazing fondly 
at him^ she sighed, as she thought there might ba 
even a possibility of his words coming true. 


The Voyage. 


87 


‘‘ I wish you would go to Curzon-street early to- 
morrow morning,” said Mr. Evelyn, “ and tell your 
aunt Louisa I shall be glad to speak with her as soon 
as she can conveniently come over. And now you 
must use all the expedition you can, for you must 
have many things to get ready for Blanche and 
yourself. And you must look after my traps this 
time, dear one,” said he, smiling ; “ I will draw on 
my bankers for any sum you may require.” 

Beatrice named the amount she thought sufficient, 
and during the next few days she had but few leisure 
moments, but we may be sure our friend Walter did 
not fail to find out when these occurred. 

It was on the afternoon of the first of November 
that they set sail for the West Indies, and left 
America’s shores behind them. Blanche shed many 
tears at leaving Hetty, but told her that she should 
send her some beautiful things back from the West 
Indies by Beatrice. Walter had busied himself 
with putting such little comforts as he could devise 
into Beatrice’s cabin — * among other things a ship- 
lamp, and a piece of matting for the fioor, and also 
a few entertaining books to beguile the weary hours 
of sea-sickness. It was a hard trial to him to part 
with Beatrice now, and yet he felt that it was an 
unlooked-for happiness to have been assured of her 
love before she left. He determined to nerve him- 
self to wait in patient faith and hope, trusting that 


88 Greatness in Ltitle Things. 

God would “ make all things work together for their 
good” — and ere Beatrice bade him farewell, he ob- 
tained a promise from her that she would correspond 
with him regularly. 

The first few days of their voyage were wretched 
enough, at least to Beatrice, who suffered very much 
from sea-sickness, the horrors of which can only be 
understood by those who have experienced it. 

Mr. Evelyn was tolerably well, and Beatrice was 
very thankful for this, as she almost blamed herself 
for not being able to bestow more attention on him. 
Blanche, however, supplied her place as well as she 
could, having been but very slightly ill. Her lively 
manner made her a general favorite with the sailors, 
and wrapped up in a warm pelisse, the child would 
often pass hours upon deck, watching the men mend- 
ing old sails or making other repairs, while they gave 
her such information as they had picked up in the 
course of a seafaring life. Her imperfect English, 
too, amused them, although it made her scarcely 
less voluble. It was curious and pleasant to feel the 
gradual increase of temperature as they moved 
Southward, and long before they reached their des- 
tination, they were glad to exchange their plaids 
and furs for cooler garments. 

The soft warm breezes seemed to revive Mr. 
Evelyn, and sitting in an easy- chair on the deck, he 
passed many pleasant hours gazing at the glorious 


St. Thomas. 


89 


sea, or at evening-time watching the bright sun 
setting beneath its waters in the West. 

They had an unusually favorable passage for the 
time of year, and after Beatrice recovered from the 
sickness, she enjoyed it exceedingly. 

It was on the evening of the 24th of November 
that the vessel anchored off the beautiful island of 
St. Thomas. The town is built, as it were, in the 
form of three open parasols, — the houses ascending 
gradually from the valley up the sides of the steep 
hills, which form the back-ground of the view from 
the sea. It belongs to the Danish government, and 
the fort presents a prominent object on the right 
hand of the picture — here dull looking soldiers 
marched about in blue uniform. The streets are lined 
with stores belonging to merchants of almost every 
nation under heaven — Spanish, Portuguese, English, 
French, Jews, West India-creoles, Danes and Turks, 
are among some of them. The first thing that struck 
Beatrice, on their approaching the island, was the 
exquisite perfume of the oleanders, which adorn the 
gardens in profusion. The sweet odor was wafted 
far out to sea by the evening land-breeze, and it re- 
sembled exactly the scent of the heliotrope. 

It was not too late in the day to land, so one of 
the ship’s boats conveyed them and their luggage on 
shore. Arriving there, a crowd of negroes imme- 
diately surrounded them and began vociferously 


90 Greatness in Litile Things. 

demanding to be employed as porters to take the 
boxes and portmanteau to the hotel. Selecting a 
couple of them, Mr. Evelyn bade them go on before 
and show them the way to the best hotel. 

“Hi! Massa,” said one of them, grinning from 
ear to ear, “ me show you him for true, sah 1 Massa 
Da Costa inn be good one, berry good, massa, ebery 
t’ing fine too much there.’^ 

The road from the shore led up a gentle slope, 
with cocoa-nut trees overshadowing it on either side. 
Beatrice’s heart bounded with delight as she felt 
that she was now really in the tropics, and she gazed 
around her, highly amused and interested in all she 
saw. Crowds of negroes were walking or lounging 
about: those who were cariying anything, invari- 
ably placing their burden on their head, however 
large and unsuitable it might appear for such a posi- 
tion. Their gay cotton dresses, and the bright- 
colored handkerchiefs tied round their heads, also 
added greatly to the picturesque effect. 

Blanche acted as show- woman, and began eagerly 
explaining all she could to Beatrice, while the latter 
entered into her feelings of admiration, with all the , 
enthusiasm she could desire. As they went along, 
Blanche pointed out different stores which she re- 
membered having been to with her aunt. 

They soon, however, arrived at the hotel, and were 
shown into a very tolerable sitting-room, though at 


Madame de Tremonille. 91 

first it looked rather comfortless to Beatrice’s ideas, 
with its carpetless pine floors, rubbed as bright as 
possible, with here and there a few pieces of matting 
laid about. There were green jalousies to all the 
windows, but the walls were bare, with the excep- 
tion of a few prints hung about. There was, for- 
tunately, a sofa, on which Mr. Evelyn wa3 glad to 
lie down and rest, for he was still very weak, and 
he then told Beatrice that she had better write a note 
to Madame de Tremonille and tell her of their arri- 
val, that she might send to fetch them as soon as 
possible. The writing materials were in one of the 
boxes down stairs, and Blanche was dispatched to 
get one of the colored waiters to bring this up. The 
note was soon written and a messenger found to 
whom strict injunctions were given to be expedi- 
tious, for they were anxious to reach their destina- 
tion before nightfall ; and this the nonchalant, free- 
and-easy air of the bearer seemed to render doubtful. 
Being promised a reward, however, in proportion to 
his speed, he set off pretty quickly, and they sat 
patiently down to await the answer. 

Madame de Tremonille’s house was fully three 
miles from the town, so that it was two hours before 
they saw her carriage drive up to the inn door. It 
was now quite dusk, but the evening was most de- 
lightful, and the carriage holding four comfortably, 
Madame de Tremonille had come to fetch them 
8 


9?/ Greatness in Little Things. 

herself — being anxious again to embrace her little 
Blanche, — her adopted child. The latter rushed out 
of the room to meet her aunt as soon as she heard 
her footstep on the stairs, and in a moment they were 
locked in each other’s arms. 

“Ah! ma Blanche! ma chere, chere petite, que 
je suis ravie de te revoir !” said her aunt, fondly 
kissing her. 

“I can speak English, too, now, aunty,” said 
Blanche. “Oh, how glad I am to see you! but 
come quickly and see my dear papa Evelyn and my 
darling Beatrice !” 

So saying, she seized her aunt by the hand and 
dragged her somewhat unceremoniously into the 
room. Mr. Evelyn and Beatrice rose to meet Ma- 
dame de Tremonille, and were mutually struck with 
her very pleasing appearance. She was, of course, 
dressed in deep mourning for her late husband ; her 
features were soft and regular, and such of her fair 
hair as was allowed to appear beneath her close 
widow’s cap, plainly bespoke her Saxon origin. She 
was, indeed, of English parentage ; her father was 
a minister of the Gospel, and he had only resided in 
the island about a year, when his daughter, Isabelle, 
married Monsieur de Tremonille, a French merchant 
of noble extraction, some six years ago. She was 
still young, apparently not more than thirty., and 
having been left in very comfortable circumstances 


The Interview. 


93 


by her husband, and having no children of her own, 
she resolved on adopting the little orphan daughter 
of her brother. 

There was a peculiarly sweet expression of chas- 
tened sorrow in her lovely countenance, which made 
Beatrice’s heart warm toward her from the first. 
Advancing, she warmly thanked Mr. Evelyn for his 
kindness to Blanche, saying she could never suffi- 
ciently express her gratitude to him for restoring 
her safe and well, to be the comfort of her widowed 
heart. 

“ My dear Madam,” said Mr. Evelyn, “ I assure 
you the benefit has been ours. This little one has 
made our Kew York home quite lively, and my 
daughter was as delighted as possible to have her 
with her. Beside, I was ordered by my physician to 
take a trip southward for my health, which has been 
somewhat delicate of late — so you see that bringing 
her here personally, was not even the slightest in- 
convenience to me.” 

“ Well ! I hope I shall have a long time now to 
enjoy your society and show you, as well as I can, 
how grateful I feel,” replied Madame de Tremon- 
ille, “I shall not let you leave my West Indian 
mountain home for a long time, and I hope soon to 
see you restored to health, under my care. But 
come, do not let us delay here any longer, 1 am 
impatient to see you all safe at home. Come, my 


94 Greatness in Little Things. 

darling Blanche, take hold of my hand, you know I 
am to be your Mamma now.” 

“ People seem able to have several Mammas and 
Papas,” said Blanche, “ I am sure it is a very nice 
thing 1 God is very good to me, for He sends me 
new ones whenever I want them.” 

“ He will always be your friend, my little one,” 
said her Aunt, “ if you love Him and trust in Him : 
He will raise up some kind friend for each of us 
when He takes any dear one away” — and at these 
words the thought of her own deep and irreparable 
loss filled her eyes with tears, and she thought again, 
even as she spoke, that no earthly friend could fill 
to her the place of him who was gone, and a sicken- 
ing feeling, almost of agony, shot through her heart, 
as she for a moment dwelt on that bitterest of all 
earthly griefs to a woman — the loss of a beloved 
husband. Oh ! I have often, dear reader, when I 
have perchance passed in the street a gentlewoman 
in the garb of widowhood, experienced a mingled 
feeling of pity and respect for her, in thinking of her 
loss. It must be so very, very bitter to a woman’s 
heart to part with him to whom she has given her 
early love — the spring-time of her afiections. God 
help and pity the widow; and He alone can and will 
do it, for has He not promised to be ‘‘a God unto 
the widow.” The comfortable and easy carriage 
bore the party rapidly along to their destination. 


l^ALM Hill. 


95 


The night being dark, they had lamps lighted all the 
way, as in some parts the road was rough and pre- 
cipitous. The fire-flies were dancing about right 
merrily, and Beatrice sat looking around her in 
silent ecstasy, too full of admiring wonder and too 
much influenced by the soothing balm of the soft 
air, to be inclined for much conversation. 

In some places, where their road lay up a hilly 
ascent, and the declining ground on either hand 
formed a valley beneath them, the swarms of fire- 
flies produced a most dazzling efiect; one might 
imagine a brilliant illumination of fairy lamps ; or 
that the sky had fallen on the ground inverted, and 
that the stars were shining below. The hum of 
countless insects was heard on all sides, and the per- 
fume of sweet flowers came wafted with the evening 
breeze. 

As they drove up to Madame de TremoniUe’s 
house, it was, of course, too dark to discern sur- 
rounding objects plainly, but there were lights burn- 
ing in several windows, and a negro servant standing 
in the porch with a lighted candle, to receive them, 
which as they drove up, enabled our travelers to see 
that it was a long building of only one story, but ex - 
tending over a considerable extent of ground, and 
with a latticed veranda in front, covered with all 
kinds of luxuriant creepers. 


96 Greatness in Little Things. 

‘‘Here we are, at last,” said Madame de Tremon- 
ille. “ Well ! Pomio, so you were expecting us, I see,” 
continued she, as she alighted from the carriage. 

“ Yes ! Missis, me hear de carriage cornin’ up de 
hill, and me no’ want Missis for break e neck in de 
dark.” 

“ Welcome ! thrice welcome to Palm Hill,” said 
his Mistress to Beatrice and her father, as they en- 
tered the hall ; “ I need not tell you how glad I am 
to see you within these walls. Here’s Miss Blanche, 
you see, Pomio, come back to us again. Here 
Blanche, love, come and speak to old Pomio but 
Blanche was already running across the hall to meet 
Jeannette, her colored nurse, who stood timidly 
awaiting her in an adjoining room, the door of 
which opened into the hall, not daring to venture 
forward, as having some secret misgivings, whether 
Blanche’s absence might not have made her too dig-* 
nified a young lady to be romped with as of old. 
Her warm embrace, however, soon dispelled poor 
Jeannette’s fears, and Pomio exclaimed to his mis- 
tress : — 

“Hi I Missy Blanche, she lub somebody too much 
for true !” 

After embracing Jeannette, Blanche ran into the 
kftchen, to see what friends she had left among its 
inmates, and also to discover if a favorite green 


Palm Hill. 


97 


parrot, which used to hang outside the kitchen - 
porch, had been taken care of. Things seemed to 
prove satisfactory to her, for she remained absent so 
long, that her Aunt had to send Pomio to summon 
her to supper, which was awaiting our travelers in 
an airy, cheerful-looking dining-room. When the 
jneal was concluded, Madame de Tremonille said to 
Mr. Evelyn, that she was sure he would be glad of 
rest, and that, therefore, she should, with his per- 
mission, immediately summon the servants to family 
prayers — “ You will want a little time, too, to un- 
pack your boxes, dear Miss Evelyn,” she continued, 
“ you know you must consider yourselves as domi- 
ciled with me for some time to come.” 

“ Indeed ! my dear Madam, you are very kind,” 
returned Mr. Evelyn, “ but it was only my intention 
to pay you a short visit, in order to return Blanche 
into your hands in person, and afterward to hire a 
small house in the neighborhood for myself and my 
daughter. It is probable my stay in the island may 
be for four or five months, and I think it would, 
therefore, be better, with your leave, to get settled 
as soon as possible.” 

“ I assure you I will not hear of your doing such a 
thing,” said Madame de Tremonille ; “ my house 
must be your house, my dear Sir, as long as you are 
in this island ; no time will be too long for me ; I 
shall be only delighted to have such pleasant com- 


98 Greatness in Little Things. 

panions, and I have old, attached servants, who are 
accustomed to the ways of the house, so that there 
will be no trouble given at all, but only pleasure. I 
feel I shall love your dear Beatrice as a sister; you 
will let me call you Beatrice, will you not ?” said she, 
kissing her — “I do not like formality.” Beatrice 
returned her embrace warmly, while her eyes spoke 
the pleasure and happiness she felt. 


CHAPTER V. 


** Thousands of men breathe, move, and live, pass off the stage of 
life and are heard of no more. Live for something — do good, and 
leave behind you a monument of virtue.” — C halicbrs. 

The bright beams of the sun awoke Beatrice at 
an early hour the following morning, and on rising 
and looking out of her bed-room windo'iy, a glorious 
prospect presented itself. Immediately beneath her 
was a very prettily kept garden, the flowers of which 
were sending forth the sweetest perfumes, while here 
and there were grouped picturesque clusters of cocoa- 
nut and marango trees; among the boughs of the 
latter hundreds of bright humming-birds were danc- 
ing in and out with almost incredible velocity. 
Some of these tiny creatures were scarcely bigger 
than a humble-bee; others, again, a larger species, 
had a tail of two slender black feathers, which crossed 
each other delicately, and were nearly twice the 
length of their little emerald-green bodies. There 
was, again, a variety called the ‘Doctor humming- 
bird,’a still larger and more sober-looking gentleman, 
dressed in purple, who seemed to make it a constant 
9 C 99 ) 


100 Greatness in Little Things. 

practice to quarrel with all the other bird-s, and chase 
them from any tree on which he might have estab- 
lished himself. These marango trees had clusters 
of sweet-smelling white flowers, much resembling 
those of the acacia, and the honey contained in these 
attracted thither large numbers of the little fairy-like 
creatures. Looking lower down toward the valley, 
the town was seen dotted prettily about, with its 
bright party-colored buildings, tinted by the morning 
sun ; and far in the distance, bounding the horizon, 
was the glorious blue sea, looking so calm, and clear, 
and peaceful. 

Beatrice ofiered a fervent prayer of gratitude to 
the God who had made all things so beautiful. She 
prayed that her visit to the island might be of some 
service, both to herself and others, and that she 
might be enabled to let her Christian light burn 
clearly before all men. O! how she wished that 
Walter could have been there, to enjoy these beau- 
tiful scenes with her — and a shadow seemed for 
a moment to fall over her, as she thought of the dis- 
tance which separated them — and then, again, the 
remembrance of his trusting words to her, as they 
stood on the deck together, that “God would surely 
work all things together for their good,” brought 
calm and comfort to her mind. 

Descending from her chamber she found Madame 
de Tremonille and Blanche already in the veranda, 


The Garden. 


101 


the latter running merrily about, while her aunt sat 
sipping a cup of cofiee, and enjoying the fresh morn- 
ing air. Blanche ran to kiss her, and Madame de 
Tremonille, after kindly inquiring after her health, 
said she did not know whether she were inclined 
immediately to adopt the West India fashion of tak- 
ing coffee in the early morning, but that there was 
some ready for her if she chose to take it. Beatrice 
declined, but said she should be very glad to recon - 
noiter the pretty garden she had been admiring from 
her bed-room window. 

“Well, then, we will all go together,” said Mai- 
dame de Tremonille ; “it is now half-past six, and 
in another hour or so, the sun will be unpleasantly 
warm, so come, Blanche, let us go at once.” 

“I am going to run on before. Aunty; I want to 
see my chickens.” 

“Well, go on, my child. I did not allow Pomio 
to wake your father, dear Beatrice, I thought he 
would require rest after his journey ; he is looking 
very delicate. Has he been ill for any long period 
of time ?” 

Beatrice recounted the history of the fire, and its 
subsequent effects, in producing the severe cold from 
which her father was still suffering. “But I have 
great hopes,” she continued, “that this warm air 
may do him a great deal of good ; you do not think 


102 Greatness in Little Things. 

he looks so very ill, do you, dear Madame de Tre- 
iiionille?” 

“Call me Isabelle,” replied her friend; “you know 
we are to be sisters, now. I feel it is no kindness to 
hide from you that, from what little I have seen of 
your father, there appears to me to be the greatest 
cause for anxiety, though still we may hope much 
from the change of climate. I can see already what 
a kind, true-hearted man he is, and how much you 
must love him ; and I earnestly hope that any fears 
I have may prove groundless — ^you and I must take 
all the care of him we can. Put your trust in the 
Lord, my dear friend, and He will never fail you. 
When my own Eugene lay delirious with fever, be- 
fore he was taken from me, I prayed so earnestly 
that I might be enabled to use our blessed Saviour’s 
words: ‘Father, not my will, but thine be done;’ 
and though our parting, when it came, was a bitter 
trial, I feel that I was greatly strengthened under it. 
‘God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,’” — and^ 
she pressed Beatrice’s hand as she spoke, while the 
tears stood in her eyes. 

Just then little Blanche came running up with a 
nosegay for Beatrice, of the oleander and fragrant 
Spanish jessamine. 

“ Why do you look so sad ?” said she ; “ come 
down the path and see what pretty chickens I have 


Mrs. Moore. 


103 


got. Many little ones have come since I went away; 
and look, Nelly is feeding them, and I want to help 
her.” 

A little black girl, of about ten years old, Pomio’s 
daughter, was busily engaged in throwing handfuls 
of chopped cocoa-nut among the fowls, who scram- 
bled for it greedily. 

“Now,” said Blanche, laughing, “you shall be 
my large chicken, dear Beatrice, and I will give you 
a great piece of the cocoa-nut. Nelly!” she called 
out, “ where did you put the pieces of cocoa-nut you 
did not cut up ?” 

“ Under de big tree, dere. Missy Blanche, on de 
little wooden seat.” 

“O! yes, I see; and now here’s a fine place for 
you two to rest, while Nelly and I finish feeding the 
chickens — and then, dear Mamma,” said she, look- 
ing up coaxingly at Madame de Tremonille, “let us 
all take a walk up the . hill behind the house, to 
widow Moore’s. I should so like to see her — and 
you know, I can get on so much better now than 
when you used to have to tell her all I wanted to 
say.” 

Her aunt kissed her and nodded consent, and 
Blanche skipped happily away and quickly dis- 
patched the business of feeding the chickens. It 
was through a very pretty path that the road lay to 
widow Moore’s house ; the first part was up a steep 


lOi Greatness in Little Things. 

ascent, but it was shaded by trees nearly the whole 
way, and then descending a gentle inclination, a 
small cottage, thatched with cocoa-nut branches, pre- 
sented itself to their view. 

“O! there is widow Moore, coming from the 
spring, with a jug of water on her head,” said 
Blanche, as she ran forward to meet her. The 
others slowly followed: ‘‘This poor woman,” said 
Madame de Tremonille, “is such a simple-minded, 
earnest Christian, and is such a really useful and 
estimable person, that I shall be glad for you to know 
her. She lost her husband some years ago, and was 
left with an only son, the very idol of her heart. 
She will be sure to speak to you of her ‘ poor boy,’ 
as she calls him, before she has seen you long. 
This son married eome three years ago, and still 
continued to reside with his mother till about ten 
months ago, when he died of fever. It was a sad 
case — his wife lay in the small room adjoining that 
in which he died, in the agonies of child-birth, un- 
able to receive her husband’s dying blessing and fare- 
well ; and the poor little fatherless boy you see in 
that young woman’s arms at the cottage door, is the 
little child he never lived to welcome into the world. 
The two widows still live together, cherishing the 
little baby as all that is left to remind them of their 
lost William. But here is Mrs. Moore coming to 
meet us. Did you ever see such a child as Blanche 


Mks. Mookk. 


105 


for making friends with every one Look how she 
liolds tliat poor woman by the hand, chatting to iier 
as fast as possible !” 

“ She is a dear little warm-hearted creature,” re- 
plied Beatrice. 

‘‘Well, Mrs. Moore,” said Madame de Tremon- 
ille, “ so you see I have found my little truant 
again!” 

“ Indeed, Missus,” said the widow, making a 
respectful salutation, “ I am glad enough to see her 
bright little face again — and she is so improved in 
her speaking, too — the dear child.” 

“I have brought a friend of mine, too, to see you, 
Mrs. Moore,” said Madame de Tremonille, turning 
to Beatrice, “ the daughter of the American gentle- 
man, who, as I told you, was so kind to little 
Blanche ; and he has brought her home safe to me 
himself; but I am sorry to say he is not at all well, 
and I think I shall have to get you to come and 
prescribe some of your favorite remedies for him. 
You must know, Beatrice, that Mrs. Moore is quite 
a celebrated nurse and doctress in these parts.” 

“Not much to boast of. Miss,” returned the wid- 
ow; “but come in, ladies, and rest yourselves awhile 
before you go home.” 

They entered the house, which, though small, was 
scrupulously neat. A rather pretty young quadroon 
woman, little William’s mother, sat dancing her 


{-Jkeatnes^ in Jjirri.E Things. 

child on her knee, singing to him, at the same time, 
a wild sort of melody — which she ceased on the 
entrance of the visitors. 

A large Bible lay open on a small, rough -wooden 
table, near the door, while a few stools and one 
rocking-chair completed the fnrnitui-e of the room. 
The windows had no panes of glass, but consisted 
merely of wooden jalousies, which could be opened 
or shut at pleasure. There was one sleeping apart- 
ment, and a small shed outside, used for cooking — 
the heat of the climate rendering it very inconve- 
nient to carry on any culinary operations in the 
house: indeed, in almost all West India houses, 
the kitchen is, for this reason, placed at a distance 
from the dwelling. 

“Well, Lucy, and how is your little boy?” said 
Madame de Tremonille, as she patted the little 
bright-eyed fellow on the cheek. 

“ Willy is fine, thank ye, Missis,” said the mo- 
ther, gazing fondly at the little smiling rogue in her 
arms. 

“ I do not think I saw you at church on Sunday, 
Mrs. Moore,” said Madame de Tremonille ; “ it is 
quite an unusual thing to see your place empty ?” 

“ Indeed, Missis, I am sorry myself whenever it 
is empty ; but our neighbor, old Joe Ward, is very 
sick, and he sent for me, a little before church-time, 
to ask me to go and see him. The poor old creature 


The Good Negro. 


107 


lives all alone, except that little, wild grandchild 
of his, who isn’t often tliere, and he seemed so down- 
hearted and sick, I thought I would stay with him 
and read and pray a bit. lie looks a poor broken- 
down old man, and certainly. Missis, he ’s none of 
the handsomest to look at, but I believe he ’s surely 
a pilgrim on his road to glory, and a child of God, 
if there ever was one in this world.” 

“Ah!” said Madame de Tremonille, ‘Ghat old 
black man, with his poor withered, and almost de- 
formed body, will shine as gloriously, and obtain, 
perhaps, a far richer inheritance, than many of those 
who, with lovely face and noble forms, have not 
served their God as faithfully as he has — with all 
his hinderances of poverty, and, I believe, persecu- 
tion, to contend with.” 

“Persecution indeed. Missis,” said Mrs. Moore; 
“ when his son and daughter-in-law were alive they 
used to worry old Joe night and day about his reli- 
gion, and if they saw him go down on his knees to 
pray, or take up his Bible, it was a signal for ill- 
treatment and harsh words. You see. Missis, the 
house was but small, and when they saw the old 
man wanted to have a quiet time to himself, they 
would just make all the noise and confusion they 
could, and so at last he used to make it his practice 
to go out of doors and get in some shady place, 
under a tree, where he thought he should not be 


lOS Greatness in Litfle Things. 

disturbed, and there pray to his Saviour so sweetly, 
that sometimes, when I have been passing anywhere 
near, I have stopped to listen till I felt my heart 
warm too. Well, they that persecuted him were 
taken away by death, and in the time of their sick- 
ness they did seem to show some little contrition 
toward the old man, and begged him to forgive 
them for all their unkindness to him. He certainly 
bore them no ill-will, for he was always as gentle 
and kind to them, as if they had been the best 
children possible, and he takes good care of their 
little one, now they are gone — though she ’s but a 
graceless child, too — and I hope he may not be dis- 
appointed in her. Before he took sick, many and 
many a time has he come down to have a time of 
prayer with me and Lucy, and our poor William. 
But now, I think, he ’s failing fast, and is not long 
for this world. Our good minister, Mr. Campbell, 
has been to see him several times lately, and this 
has been a great comfort to the poor old man. He 
is such a kind gentleman — I love to see him enter 
my door ; what he says always seems to help me, 
and do me good.” 

‘‘We are indeed blessed in our minister,” replied 
Madame de Tremonille ; “ but come, it must be 
breakfast -time, and we had better be going home,” 
continued she, moving toward the door — “come to 
me, Mrs. Moore, for any little delicacy you think 


The Minister. 


109 


old Joe might fancy. I will come and see him my- 
self, if I can, to-morrow.” 

“ Who is this Mr. Campbell said Beatrice, as 
they slowly wended their way toward the house. 

“ He is the minister of a small Scotch church, 
recently established near here,” was the reply ; “I 
will show you the neat building when we shall have 
turned the brow of the hill. His cure lies among 
the small hamlets scattered along the valley, below 
our house. His congregation consists chiefly of col- 
ored people, but there are several white families 
who attend regularly — ours among others. Indeed, 
I have myself lately become a member of his church, 
and this for several reasons. One is, that I believe 
his preaching to be faithful, and his views scriptu- 
ral, and that he endeavors to preach Christ to the 
people. Another is, that the nearest church in the 
town is two miles and a half from home, and I do not 
like to use my servants and horses on the Sabbath, 
when I can avoid doing so ; and beside, if we attend 
any church, I think, we should, if possible, be regular 
and constant in attending all the services which are 
held there. Ido not approve of the plan of just going 
to church once on the Sabbath, when the minister 
thinks it fitting and advantageous to have a second 
service, that the people may at least have an oppor- 
tunity of meeting together twice on the Lord’s day. 
I do not think it becomes a professing Christian to 


110 (treatness in Little Things. 

be willingly absent from such a means of grace. It 
is not the form of going to church twice that I look 
to ; it is, that where a person is a true Christian, they 
will love to meet together with other believers, to 
serve their common Lord.” 

“ How many people there are, though,” said Bea- 
trice, “who seem to think they have quite performed 
their duty, if they just go and ‘ show themselves ’ 
at church once on the Sabbath ; they seem to think 
it a sort of necessary duty done, and out of the way 
— and the rest of the day is spent in frivolous con- 
versation, or in reading books of general literature, 
which, though very good in their way, are certainly 
not calculated to lead our thoughts to that Lord who 
has commanded us to keep His day holy : ‘ not 
following our own thoughts, nor speaking our own 
words.’ ” 

“ I think,” said Madame de Tremonille, “ that it 
is a pity, that many well-meaning Christian parents, 
by an unnecessary strictness and severity of disci- 
pline, should create a distaste in the minds of their 
children for the duties of the Sabbath — and when 
these children grow up, and throw off parental 
restraint, they will be the more likely, if not con- 
verted, to disregard even the decent observance of 
the day. I would not allow a child to play the 
same games, or read the same books, as on the 
week-da^^s, but I would find something to afford 


Sunday Disuiuline. 


Ill 


Boiiio relaxation to the mind after the hours of pub- 
lic worship, which might still be of a gentle and 
quiet nature, befitting a holy day of rest — God’s 
day — and yet enough to keep the mind and body 
from weariness from being kept on the stretch during 
the whole day. This was the plan pursued with me, 
by my dear mother, in England, when I was a child. 
Although she never allowed me to follow my own 
fancy about going to church, as some mothers do — 
permitting any trivial excuse pleaded to be a cause 
of non-attendance— yet she never made my going 
seem irksome to me, for she always spoke of it as 
the greatest treat and privilege, and as what no 
right-minded Christians would ever willingly absent 
themselves from. I could see how she looked for- 
ward to going to God’s house — how she always 
made it a point to be there early, so as to lose no 
part of the precious service, and I used to think it 
very, very nice, to be allowed to go with her. In 
the afternoon, she used to take me with her to the 
parish-school, and when I was old enough I had a 
class of little ones to teach myself, and this was a 
source of great pleasure and interest. When we 
came home, I was allowed to go into the garden, or 
occupy myself in any quiet way for an hour or two. 
Then she would call me, and we read together out 
of the Bible, or some book of simple religious 


il2 Greatness in Little Things. 

instruction, allegories, memoirs, etc. O 1 how well 
I remember going through the Pilgrim’s Progress, 
and the delight it gave me. After that, my mother 
would open the piano, and sing sweet hymns, while 
I would join as well as I could, and dear Papa, too, 
if he happened to be there. After tea, there was 
the evening service at the church, and then, as a 
Sunday treat, I was always allowed to sit up to 
supper with papa and mamma. My Sundays, dear 
Beatrice, were looked forward to and not dreaded, 
and I have loved the Sabbath ever since. I do not 
mean to say that every child brought up to regard 
the Sabbath thus, would love it and look forward to 
it, but such a course has most certainly a tendency 
to produce that effect and I think I may say that 
the cordial love felt by both my parents, for God’s 
word. His day, and His ordinances, was the means, 
under Him, of bringing my heart to the Saviour. 
I had many, many advantages ; I was the child of 
much prayer, and I feel how very much Christian 
parents may do for the souls of their children ; how 
seldom do we see the children of praying fathers 
and mothers die unconverted. The ground may lie 
fallow for years, but if good seed be sown, it will 
assuredly spring up into life some day.” 

“ I suppose you intend pursuing much such a plan 
as that you mentioned, with regard to Blanche,” said 


The Poor Carpenter. 113 

Beatrice ; ‘‘ she is a dear little docile thing, and bet- 
ter than that, indeed, for she seems to have been 
taught to know and love the Saviour by her poor 
father. He was a Christian, was he not?” 

“ Indeed he was, an earnest and devoted one,” said 
Madame de Tremonille. “ I, as you know, had only 
the pleasure of knowing him for about six months ; 
but he was not the kind of man who would ‘ hide 
his light under a bushel.’ He loved God, and he 
was not ashamed to own Him before men. It may 
be fancy, but I have sometimes thought that I could 
see ‘ the light shining through,’ on the face of any one 
particularly full of God’s Spirit; and it was so with 
him, to a remarkable degree.” 

“ O ! I know what you mean,” replied Beatrice. 
“ I remember, once. Papa took me walking with him 
to see a poor carpenter, with whom he had some 
business ; and I really seemed to feel, directly I saw 
him, that he was a Christian — and the idea was con- 
firmed when he began to speak — there seemed such 
a heavenly, happy expression on his countenance. 
But I do not think, dear Isabelle, (and Beatrice 
looked at her companion and smiled, as she pro- 
nounced the name,) that I have observed this in 
many Christians, have you ?” 

“ No, indeed ; I am sorry to say that most of God’s 
children allow the clouds and mists of sin to be far 


114 : GliEATNESS IN LlTfLE ThINGS. 

too thick and strong for much light to shine at all. 
But, I think, the reason is, that they do not live near 
■enough to Him — not sufficiently in personal commu- 
nion with Him. I have seen that, at times, in my 
dear Eugene’s face, which plainly told me he had 
been with Jesus, when, perhaps, I had been absent 
from the house, and quite unaware of how he had 
been engaged I Oh ! it is such a comfort, dear Bea- 
trice, — such an inexpressible comfort, — ^to think of 
these things, now that he is gone.” 

“ Oh ! how bitterly a Christian woman must rue 
it, in after life, when she has been tempted, from 
worldly causes, to marry an unbeliever,” said 
Beatrice. 

. “Bitterly, indeed; but we have quite strayed 
away from Mr. Campbell, of whom you were asking 
me. He is such a faithful man ; his work here is 
really quite a missionary one, for his salary is ex- 
ceedingly small, and his congregation poor and scat- 
tered; but I will let you judge of him when you 
have seen him. I hope, dear Beatrice, that when- 
ever you marry, it may be a man as earnest and de- 
voted as he is. 

Beatrice blushed, and said : “Yes, indeed, I be- 
lieve, I think it — ^is so — ” 

“ What!” said Madame de Tremonille, looking at 
her, and smiling as she spoke; “so that’s the case, 


Creoles. 


115 


is it ? So you have left youi’ heart in New York, 
have you ? Do tell me who it is — I am so glad — I 
know you will make such a good wife.” 

“Thank, you,” said Beatrice, laughing; “but 
now we are at the house, so I will wait till after 
breakfast to satisfy your curiosity. I must r^^lly go 
and see how dear Papa is — he will be awake, and 
wondering what has become of me.” 

Blanche joined them at the gate ; she had strayed 
away in search of flowers, and by the time she 
reached home, she was quite ready for her breakfast. 

“ Do not be long,” said Madame de Tremonille, 
“we shall wait tor you ; and I want you to tell me 
what your Papa will fancy to eat. I suppose they 
would think our West India breakfast an odd one 
in New York, would they not, Blanche ?” 

“ Yes, indeed, dear Mamma, I do not think they 
would get used to eating plantain and yam, early 
in the morning, at first. You know, I did not like 
it, when I first came from France, — everything tasted 
so funny to me.” 

“So it did to me, darling; but you see I have 
been so long here, I am becoming quite a creole.” 

“What do you mean by that word creole^ Mam- 
ma ? Am I a creole ?” 

“No, dearest. Creoles, properly speaking, are 
European people’s children who have been born in 
the West Indies, but the term is now generally 
10 


116 Gkka’nf.sj^ in Little Things. 

applied to all who are natives of the islands, whether 
white or colored. You are not a creole, because, 
you know, you were born in France; and I am not 
a creole, for I was born in England.” 

“Then, is Judge Green’s little baby a creole, 
Mamina ?” said Blanche, thoughtfully. 

“ Yes, dearest ; you know she was born just before 
you left for America. Don’t you remember going 
with me to see it, and being afraid to touch the tiny 
creature, lest you should hurt it ?” 

‘‘O! yes, to be sure!” said Blanche, laughing; 
“ but I was littler then than 1 am now ; I have seen 
several babies since then.” 

“ And the baby was ‘ littler,’ as you call it, too ; 
she has grown a nice little girl — I will take you to 
see her some day, if you are good.” 

“I hope I shall be good, dear Mamma ; oh ! it is so 
nice to be here with you again, and to have Beatrice 
here too. You can’t think how kind she was to 
me in New York — she was so gentle, and she used 
to teach me so many things. I was thinking, this 
morning, when I was out gathering flowers, of a 
pretty hymn she once gave me to learn. May I re- 
peat it to you ?” 

“Do, my child!” 

Blanche began to repeat the beautiful hymn, be- 
ginning— “ I want to be like Jesus ;” pronouncing 
the words slowly and carefully, lest her imperfect 


Mk. Evelyn’s Illness. 117 

pronunciation should destroy the effect on her aunt’s 
mind. 

When she had finished, her aunt thanked her, 
and kissed her fondly ; and just then the door opened 
and Beatrice entered. She looked pale and dis- 
tressed, and said she had found her father extremely 
weak and exhausted, his cough having been veiy 
troublesome during the night. 

“ Oh ! dear, I am sorry to hear so bad an ac- 
count,” said Madame de Tremonille; ‘‘do you not 
think it would be better to send for medical advice ? 
I can recommend a physician, whom I believe to be 
very skillful.” 

“ Well ! I really think I will venture to send for 
him, on my own responsibility, without consulting 
Papa,” replied Beatrice. “ He looks so very ill that 
I cannot feel easy till he has seen a doctor, and yet, in 
another hour he might feel so much better as to 
oppose our sending for one.” 

Madame de Tremonille arranged several little 
tempting delicacies on a tray, and dispatched them 
to Mr. Evelyn by Pomio, and then told Beatrice 
that she must come and eat some breakfast on pain 
of her serious displeasure. When the latter had 
seated herself at the table, Madame de Tremonille 
said, that she thought she would drive down into the 
town herself, after breakfast ; that she had some shop- 


118 Greatness in Little Things. 

ping to do, and that she could call at Dr. Mason’s at 
the same time. “ I should be glad if* you could come 
with me, dear Beatrice,” she continued ; “ but per- 
haps you would hardly like to leave your father — 
but do as you like best.” 

Thank you, I will stay with Papa,” replied 
Beatrice, “ and I want very much to write home — I 
know Hetty will be expecting a letter.” 

“And somebody else, too, eh?” said her friend, 
laughing — “ Come now, dear Beatrice, tell me who 
your intended is, and what he is like, or I shall not 
be able to eat my breakfast for curiosity.” 

Beatrice colored and laughed — “ Well now,” said 
she, “ where am I to begin ? at the color of his eyes, 
or his hair, or his age and height — or what ?” 

“Anything you like, as long as you give me a 
good idea of him.” 

Beatrice recounted, in as few words as possible, 
the history of her acquaintance with Walter Grey, 
and described his prospects, and character, and dis- 
position. It is true, that the sketch was painted 
with the rosy light of love — but it was about a 
correct one, after all. 

“ I think he is such a very nice young man, 
Aunty,” said Blanche — “he was always so kind to 
me. Hetty, and all of us liked him so much — and 
he is handsome, too.” 


Beatrice’s Confession. 


119 


“Well! I only hope he is worthy of your friend, 
Beatrice, my child ; but run now and tell Jeannette 
to get you ready to go to town with me ; you would 
like to come, would you not?” 

“O! yes, Aunty, very much.” 

“Well then, dear, go now and do not be long. 
You had better run into the kitchen first, and tell 
Cato to bring the carriage round as soon as he can, 
for I want to set off before the sun gets too hot.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee, 

Since God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide, 

He gave thee. He took thee, and soon will restore thee, 

Where death has no sting since the Saviour has died. 

Bishop Hebeb. 

“ The dead are like the stars by day. 

Withdrawn from mortal eye.” 

The next few days spent at Palm Hill, slipped 
rapidly away, unmarked by any particular event. 
Mr. Evelyn, who had rallied a little, used to 
lie, during the greater part of the day, on a 
lounge in the veranda, while little Blanche would 
fan him gently, and Beatrice read aloud. In the 
cool of the evening, when he was well enough, 
he used to take a drive in Madame de Tremonille’s 
carriage ; but he did not seem to rally as much as 
his friends had hoped, and his cough was now ac- 
companied by slight hemorrhage from the lungs, 
and the doctor and Madame de Tremonille thought 
him failing fast; but Beatrice could not help per- 
suading herself that he would soon be better, and 
that the present great weakness was only the result 
of the voyage an4 pf liis long sickness in New York. 
a20) 


The Picture. 


121 


Certainly, there were times when her father would 
seem quite cheerful, and enter into conversation 
with almost the liveliness and animation of old 
times — and then his daughter’s sanguine disposition 
made her ready to believe, that in a few weeks, he 
Would be quite well again. 

When thus free from anxiety on his account, Bea- 
trice used to enter with the greatest zest into explo- 
ring different parts of the island, collecting curiosities, 
sketching, etc. She soon amassed a goodly amount 
of delightful horribles, such as tine centipedes, scor- 
pions, lizards and snakes, which she carefully put up 
in spirits of wine to show to Walter and Hetty. 

Beatrice could draw very nicely, and she found 
abundant subject for her pencil — what with the 
beautiful and luxuriant foliage — the picturesque 
dwellings, and the diversified scenery, she made a 
small, but very pretty water-color drawing of Palm 
Hill, and inclosed it in a letter home ; and Madame 
de Tremonille was so delighted with it, that she 
begged Beatrice to draw one for her on a larger 
scale — that she might have it framed and hang it 
in her room, for a keepsake. 

There was an English merchant, of the name of 
Gisborne, residing at a very pretty place, about half 
a mile from Palm Hill : he had a wife and several 
children, all grown up, and they were exceedingly 
kind and pleasant people. One or two of the daugh- 


122 Greatness in Little Things. 

ters were musical, and they were delighted with Bea- 
trice’s sweet voice ; and when her father was well 
enough, she would often go over to Shady Grove, to 
practice with them. 

Three or four times, Mr. Gisborne hired a boat 
and took them all out, in the early morning, for a 
row along the coast — they used to drive down to the 
shore as soon as daylight broke, and get back home 
again ere the sun had become unpleasantly powerful. 
Beatrice and Blanche were always delighted to be 
of the party, but Madame de Tremonille hardly felt in- 
clined to join them, so soon after her husband’s death. 

One morning, after the Evelyns had been about 
a month in the island, Beatrice was returning from 
one of these expeditions, with little Blanche, and on 
coming near the house, Madame de Tremonille met 
them, with an expression of sadness and anxiety on 
her face. Beatrice eagerly and breathlessly asked 
her if anything was wrong. 

“ My dear girl,” she replied, “ I am afraid your 
father is very ill. About half an hour ago, he rang 
his bell, and when Pomio went to his room, he 
found him lying on the bed, bleeding profusely from 
the mouth, and unable to speak. I sent for widow 
Moore, instantly, as I scarcely knew what to do 
myself, and she is with him now, and I also dis- 
patched Pomio on horseback, for the doctor. 

Beatrice rushed along the passage, without reply- 


J KANNETTE. 


123 


ing ; she only clasped her hands together, and said, 
“Oh ! that I should have been out! — poor Papa 1” 

“I ara surprised you did not meet Pomio, as you 
came up the hill, from Shady Grove, Blanche,” said 
Madame de Tremonille, “ are you sure he did not 
pass you ?” 

“ Oh ! yes, dear Mamma, I ’m sure we should have 
seen him,” replied Blanche, looking very pale. 
“If you please. Missis,” said Jeannette, who had just 
come into the room, to fetch Blanche to change her 
dress, “ I t’ink Pomio must have pass de oder way, 
t’rough de estate de Monsieur Everette ; it is a leetle 
more short for de horseback, though it not do for 
carriage.” 

“Ah! you are right, Jeannette; I did not think 
of that.” 

“ Yenez, Mademoiselle Blanche, s’il vous plait, 
il faut que je vous habille pour le dejeuner.” 

“Oui, Jeannette, but you can talk English, to 
Maman ; I like you speak it to me, too — but come, 
Jeannette, we must go very softly along the passage, 
now poor Mr. Evelyn is so sick. Should you think 
he was so very bad ?” continued she, as they entered 
the pretty little room appropriated to her use. 

“Pomio say, in de kitchen,” replied Jeannette, 
“dat he t’ink he no live long ; ah ! la pauvre Mademoi- 
selle Beatrice, dat will make her too much sorrow.” 


11 


124 Greatness in Little Things. 

But we must follow Beatrice, to her father’s 
room. Stopping one moment at the door, she 
forcibly endeavored to control her feelings, lest her 
sudden entrance might excite her father too much : 
softly opening the door, she saw him lying perfectly 
still, with his eyes shut, looking very pale, while 
Mrs. Moore was sitting on a low stool at the foot of 
the bed. She_rose, when she saw Beatrice, and put 
her finger on her lips, to enjoin silence. 

Do not speak to him, dear lady, but only let 
him know that 3-ou are here.” 

Beatrice pressed her lips gently on his forehead, 
and Mr. Evelyn opened his eyes, and softly pressed 
her hand. He moved his lips to speak, but he 
could not do so. 

‘‘ God bless you, my own dear Papa,” whispered 
Beatrice, in a voice trembling from suppressed 
emotion, “ what shall I do for you ? If you could 
only make me some sign to tell me if you are suf- 
fering pain or not !” 

Mr. Evelyn shook his head. Shortly after he 
joined his hands in the attitude of prayer, and nod- 
ded to Beatrice — she understood that he wished her 
to pray, and she knelt softly down by the side of 
the bed ; Mrs. Moore knelt too, and that prayer 
seemed to comfort all their hearts ; and on Mr. 
Evelyn’s face, when they arose, there was an ex- 


125 


Dojjtob Mason. 

pression of happiness, and holy resignation. Bea- 
trice sat down quietly to await the doctor’s coming ; 
her heart was very sad ; she felt as though her dear 
father were about to be taken from her — and how 
should she bear it ? alone, away from home, in a 
foreign land. 

Once there came a gentle tap at the door ; it was 
Blanche, who had been sent by Madame de Tremon- 
ille to inquire after Mr. Evelyn. Beatrice gave her 
a message to take to her aunt, and her voice trem- 
bled as she did so. 

Blanche looked very much awed at the sight of 
Beatrice’s grief. She longed to throw her arms 
round her neck and comfort her, but she felt a child’s 
instinctive reverence for sorrow, and she only stood 
patiently and sadly awaiting the answer, and then 
glided noiselessly along the passage. 

The doctor arrived shortly after, and when he left 
her father’s room, Beatrice waited for him in the 
veranda. “ Doctor Mason,” said she, “ will you tell 
me candidly and sincerely if we have reason for 
alarm ?” 

“ My dear young lady, I should think it false 
kindness were I to hide from you the real state of 
the case. Your father will rally, I expect, in a day 
or two, and he may linger, perhaps, for some v/eeks, 
but longer than that you may not hope to have him 
with you. He has not, naturally, a very strong 


126 Greatness in Litfle Things. 

constitution, and this severe cold has settled on his 
lungs in too dangerous a form, to be materially alle- 
viated by the change of climate. Such, I am sorry 
to say, is the truth, since you ask it from me.” 

Beatrice felt ready to sink under the blow of the 
intelligence, but she commanded her voice sufficient- 
ly to reply ; “ Thank you ; it is far better that I should 
know the worst.” 

“ Do not hesitate to send for me at any hour of 
the day or night, when I may be of use,” said 
Dr. Mason, as he mounted his horse. “ Good-by, 
young lady, pray remember to keep your father as 
quiet as possible.” 

Beatrice went into the drawing-room to seek Ma- 
dame de Tremonille. She found her engaged in 
writing, and said to her : “ Isabelle, I have just seen 
the doctor, and — ” 

“Well, dear, and what is his report?” said Ma- 
dame de Tremonille, tenderly, laying down her pen 
as she spoke. 

Beatrice laid her head on her friend’s shoulder 
and burst into tears. Madame de Tremonille suf- 
fered her to weep uninterruptedly for a minute or so, 
and then said, in a whispered voice: “ Do not worry 
yourself to tell me, dear Beatrice, I can see how it is. 
May the Lord comfort you, my dear girl, under this 
great trial. Lean on Him in your weakness, dear 
Beatrice.” 


The Scotch Minister. 127 

“I do — I will,” sobbed she, “but oh! my dear 
Papa, what shall I do without him ?” 

As the doctor had expected, Mr. Evelyn was con- 
siderably revived, the following day, and was soon 
able to be wheeled to the porch door, in an easy- 
chair, to enjoy the cool sea-breeze ; but it was like 
the flickering flame of a candle, about to expire. 
Some days, he. would appear tolerably well, and be 
able to talk with his daughter, for some time together, 
but at night, his cough was unceasing, and he was 
scarcely able to lie down at all, but was propped 
up in his bed with pillows. 

Beatrice was with him, as much as possible, but 
she found Mrs. Moore a most valuable assistant. 
During Mr. Evelyn’s illness, he was frequently 
visited by Mr. Campbell, the young Scotch minister, 
of whom we have spoken before. Their intercourse 
was a source of mutual gratification ; in Mr. Eve- 
lyn, Mr. Campbell found an experienced Christian, 
ripened for eternity, and one to whose matured 
judgment he could look for advice, in his min- 
isterial difiiculties ; and Mr. Evelyn was delighted 
with the freshness of heart — the simple faith, and 
earnestness of the young minister. 

Sometimes, when Mr. Evelyn was strong enough 
to bear it, the whole household would assemble in 
his room, while Mr. Campbell expounded a chapter 
in the Bible, and prayed — and these were sweet and 


128 Greatness tn J^ttti.e TpriNGs. 

solemn occasions, the influence of which was felt 
by all. 

Late one afternoon, Mr. Evelyn was sitting in an 
easy-chair near his bedroom window ; Beatrice was 
at work near him ; the sun was just setting, and as 
he gazed at its departing glories, Beatrice saw his 
lips move in prayer : she thought of those beautiful 
lines of Peabody’s — 

“ Behold, the western evening light, 

It melts in deepening gloom — 

So calmly, Christians sink away. 

Descending to the tomb.” 

Her father knew that death was approaching, but 
for him, he was no King of terrors. He had been 
taught by faith, to overcome the dread which our 
poor human bodies feel, at the thought of corruption, 
and his spirit longed to be with its Saviour. 

My Bee,” he said at length, “ I sometimes seem 
to feel your dear mother’s spirit so near to me, it 
seems as though 1 could almost hear her speaking. 

I feel so this evening — I feel as though she were 
about to welcome me to that happy land, whither 
she has gone before. ‘My Mary,’ he continued, 
closing his eyes with a dreamy look, ‘I shall soon 
come to thee, to part no more for eternity I It is but 
a short journey — a little stage — and I shall be on the 
other side.’ O! my Saviour, I thank thee, that’ 
thou hast taught me to love and know thee. I 


Dying instruottonsT 


129 


bless thee, that I can say, thou art my Redeemer. 
‘ Lord, when shall I behold thy face, and stand 
complete in righteousness !’ My own Bee — my 
darling child — come and kiss me. I leave you and 
Hetty to the care of your heavenly Father; I thank 
Him that you, my child, have given your heart to 
Him ; oh ! watch over your sister with a mother’s 
care — she is often impulsive, and thoughtless, but 
careful attention and guidance will do much. My 
Bee, when you and Walter are married, do not let 
your sister leave’ you ; she would not be happy, in 
New York, with her aunt. I have provided for the 
latter in my will, so that she will not be a burden on 
you ; and to my two dear children, with but a few 
trifling exceptions, I leave the rest of what I possess. 
I feel sure, that some way will be provided for you, 
to leave this island, but till that time, I know, 
Madame de Tremonille will give you a home 
here — ” 

Beatrice had risen, and stood motionless behind 
his chair, the tears streaming down her face, but 
she would not interrupt the precious words of her 
dying father with any sudden outburst of grief. 
She controlled herself to say : 

“Dear Papa; all shall be as you wish — I will 
take care of Hetty.” 

“ Do you think Mr. Campbell will be here this 
evening^ dearest?” said Mr. Evelyn; “I should 


130 Greatness in Little Things. 

like to see him once more before I die. I feel as if 
I could encourage him to hold on. O ! the prize is 
worth contending for ! I feel, I feel it is.” 

“ Shall we send and tell him, dear Papa P’ said 
Beatrice ; “ I can send Nelly over to the Manse, if 
you wish it ?” 

“ Do so, love ; I feel 1 have not long to be with 
you, my Bee.” 

‘‘ Dear Papa, oh ! why do you say so I you do not 
look worse, this evening, than you have done of late. 
I am sure, if you lie down, you will feel better.” 

Her father looked up at her, and there was on his 
face such an expression of death, and yet of holy 
calm, that Beatrice’s countenance changed — the 
color left her face, and laying her head on his shoul- 
der, she bui’st into tears. O I Papa, Papa !” she 
sobbed, “ what shall I do without you ?” 

God comfort yon, my own best child ; do not 
grieve — I am so happy, and our separation is but 
for a little while.” 

Beatrice made no reply — she lay perfectly still for 
a few moments, and then glided softly out of the 
room and went in search of Madame de Tremonille, 
to whom she expressed her father’s wish to see Mr. 
Campbell. Nelly was instantly dispatched for him, 
and Beatrice sat down on the sofa by her friend’s 
side, and told of all her father had just been 
saying. 


The Arrival. 


131 


“ He seems to feel his end near,” continued she ; 
“ and oh ! I have been convinced of it, for the first 
time, myself: he seemed to rally so often, I could 
not fancy that the dreaded hour was so near. But 
oh ! Isabelle, is it not glorious to see how a Chris- 
tian can die ! My dear father ! he seems so happy. 
He seems to long to be with Jesus.” 

‘‘ Yes, dear Beatrice, such an instance of triumph- 
ant faith is very, very precious to other Christians. 
It shows them that what they are striving after is not 
a myth, a phantom, a dream ; but a certainty, suflB- 
cient to uphold and comfort, when passing through 
the dark valley. I feel, dear Beatrice, what a tie 
there is between Christians. I esteem it an honor 
to have entertained, in my house, one so ripe for 
eternity as your father.” 

Beatrice kissed her, and a smile shone through 
her tears as she did so. 

Just then the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard 
coming up the avenue. It was Dr. Mason, and they 
heard him pass through the veranda, and along the 
passage to Mr. Evelyn’s room. 

“ Stay, dear Beatrice,” said Madame de Tremon- 
ille, rising, “ I will just go into the kitchen and tell 
Pomio to station himself in the porch and watch for 
the doctor’s going out, that he may come in and tell 
us the report.” 


182 Greatness in Little Things. 

During this time, Blanche had been sitting in a 
niche of the window, half-shaded by the muslin 
window-curtain ; Beatrice was first aware of her 
presence by hearing a low sob proceeding from the 
opposite end of the room, and looking up, she saw 
Blanche sitting with her face between her hands, 
crying bitterly. “Blanche, dear child, come here,” 
said Beatrice. 

A tearful little face it was that was raised at her 
call, but springing forward, Blanche threw her arms 
round Beatrice’s neck and wept afresh. 

“What is the matter, dear Blanche said Bea- 
trice, gently kissing her. 

“ O ! dear Beatrice, I cannot bear to see you so 
unhappy ; it is so dreadful to hear you cry, and I 
have just seemed to walk about, lately, and be near 
you, and yet I dared not ask you how you felt, or 
how dear Mr. Evelyn was, and you never seemed to 
speak to me yourself — so I was afraid to trouble 
you.” 

“ Dear child ! forgive me,” said Beatrice- — “ I 
know I ought to have spoken more to you, but I was 
thinking so much, you know, of dear Papa; you 
must not think me unkind — I did not mean to 
be so.” 

“ Oh! no, no,” said Blanche, earnestly ; “ I know 
you would never do anything unkind, but I did so 


Mr. Campbell. 


133 


long for a word from you ; and then when you came 
and cried so, talking to Mamma, why, I could not 
help crying too.” 

“ Well ! now, sit quietly here on my knee, dear ; 
I cannot talk much now, for I am very anxious to 
know what Dr. Mason thinks of dear Papa. Here, 
rest your head against my shoulder, and we will 
wait together.” 

Madame de Tremonille looked anxious too ; her 
work dropped from her fingers, and she sat alter- 
nately looking at the door and at Beatrice. In 
another minute or two, came a gentle tap at the 
door, and a gentleman entered — it was Mr. Camp- 
bell. Madame de Tremonille rose to shake hands 
with him, and whispered a few words to him, ex- 
plaining the state of the case, and then they ad- 
vanced to the sofa, and Beatrice roused herself to 
welcome him. 

“I am sorry to hear so bad an account of your 
father. Miss Evelyn,” said Mr. Campbell, seating 
himself — “ at least, sorry for your sake ; for himself, 
we cannot but rejoice that he hopes so soon to be 
free.” 

Beatrice made a gesture of assent, but she did not 
trust herself to speak. 

“ I had just come from seeing old Joe Ward,” 
said Mr. Campbell, turning to Madame de Tremon- 
ille, “when your little messenger arrived. He is 


134 Greatness in Little Things. 

lingering long, but he is very resigned and happy ; 
have you seen him lately 

“ I was there only the day before yesterday,” was 
the reply. “ He is a remarkable instance, I think, 
of the truth of that saying of our Saviour — ‘ He hath 
hid these things from the wise and prudent, and has 
revealed them unto hahes? What advantages of in- 
struction and education has this poor old negro had ? 
and yet he has as deep an experience in the things 
of God, and as intimate a communion with Him, as 
the most learned and talented could have. I am 
sure it has often astonished me, when sitting by his 
side, to perceive the depth of his acquaintance with 
both the words of the Bible and their spiritual 
meaning.” 

“ O ! old Ward has been a Christian for many 
years, and living so near God, he has learned to 
know something of Him.” 

Pomio now softly opened the door, and ushered 
in Dr. Mason. As he advanced and greeted the 
party, Mr. Campbell asked him how he found Mr. 
Evelyn, for Beatrice dared not speak. 

“ I find him advanced a long way upon his jour- 
ney,” was the reply — “ he is almost on the river’s 
brink.” 

“ How? Doctor, is it indeed so near ?” said Ma- 
dame de Tremonille, gently. 

“I may not tell you otherwise— the shadow of 


The Benediction. 


135 


this night will, I think, be the shadow of the valley 
of death for him, and the morning’s dawn shall 
usher in the Sun of liighteousness which knows no 
setting.” 

Beatrice gave a convulsive shudder, but hid her 
face against Blanche’s shoulder. 

“ Young lady,” said the doctor, going up to her — 
“I must now go, for I have a patient waiting for 
me ; but let me tell you one thing. I have found it a 
blessing to attend upon your dear father. I feel my 
own hopes brighter and my faith more settled. 
Good-by! God bless you!” 

Beatrice pressed his hand. After a few moments’ 
silence, Beatrice looked up — “Oh !” she said, “ this 
is sudden — is it not? I little thought it was so 
near! Dear Papa! I must go to him, and not lose 
the precious moments that are left.” 

Mr. Evelyn was lying quietly in bed, when Bea- 
trice entered; she went up and threw her arms 
round him, saying — “Oh! Papa, Papa!” 

“My child!” said Mr. Evelyn, “the messenger 
has come at last. I shall soon have done with pain, 
and care, and sorrow. Look up, my Bee ! look up ! 
it is all bright !” 

“I will! Papa, I will!” sobbed she; “but the 
parting is hard.” 

“Heavenly Father!” murmured the dying man, 
“ to Thy protection I leave this dear one. Hide her 


136 Greatness in Little Things. 

under the shadow of thy wings, O Lord ! A father’s 
fondest blessing rest on thee and thy sister, my 
child !” There was a pause. 

“Is Mr. Campbell here, love?” 

“Yes ! Papa, he is in the drawing-room with 
Madame de Tremonille and Blanche.” 

“ Tell them all to come, I want to see them once 
more before I die.” 

Beatrice found Mrs. Moore waiting in the pas- 
sage, and telling her to summon them, she returned 
to her father’s room, and sitting down on a low chair, 
she hid her face against the bed. 

Mr. Evelyn held out his hand, as his friends came 
softly into his room — and it was gently pressed by 
each of them. They stood around his bed. 

“ My dear sir,” said he to Mr. Campbell, “ fight 
the good fight of faith ; do not be discouraged. I 
find how blessed is the reward ; strive to gather in 
souls to Christ — to be zealous in his cause, and He 
will strengthen your hands. We shall meet above ! 
God bless you !” 

“ To you, dear Madam,” said he, turning his eyes 
on Madame de Tremonille, “let me offer my sincere 
thanks for all your kindness to me and my daughter 
since we have been here. God will bless you for' it; 
you are still young, — work for Christ. You have 
lost your dearest earthly friend ; let this knit your 
heart closer to Jesus. I ask you to take care of my 


Death-bed Prayer. 


137 


daughter, till her friends in America shall provide 
an escort for her — I' know you will do this for a fel- 
low Christian. 

‘‘ What I have done or can do for her, I feel to be 
nothing,” was the reply ; “ my house shall be her 
home as long as ever she chooses to make it so.” 

“ Thank you ; the blessing of a dying man rest 
on you.” 

“ Blanche, dear little one, follow Christ ; give 
Him your whole heart now, when you are young. 
Be a comfort to your adopted mother, and repay her 
kindness. The Lord bless you ! 

“ Let widow Moore and Pomio come in, and any 
of the others who choose. I have a word for them.” 

The servants collected in a group at the foot of the 
bed, while Mr. Evelyn gave them a parting charge 
and benediction, and then Mr. Campbell made a 
movement with his hand, and all knelt in prayer. 

Prayer by the bed-side of the dying believer has 
something in it peculiarly solemn. It is the last 
mutual intercourse of the survivors and the depart- 
ing, with that God to whose care the dear one is 
about to be intrusted in such a solemn manner, both 
body and soul. Mr. Evelyn seemed exhausted, at 
the conclusion, and all left the room, after a parting 
shake of the hand, with the exception of Beatrice 
and also Mrs. Moore, who remained to watch with 
her. 


138 Greatness in Little Things. 

It was nearly eight o’clock ; Mr. Evelyn fell into 
a doze, and perfect silence reigned through the room. 
Beatrice rose, when she saw he was asleep, and 
walked to tlie window. It was open, for the night 
was very warm, and as she leaned her head out, the 
fresh land-breeze played on her hot cheeks. The 
odor of the flowers came up sweetly from the garden 
below; the flre-flies were dancing about among 
the trees, and the saw-beetle was humming its mon- 
otonous drone. A few stars were appearing, and 
everything seemed to agree, in its calmness and 
quiet, with the death-bed of a Christian. Solemn 
thoughts of eternity fllled Beatrice’s mind, and she 
stood, resting her head on her hand, in a kind of 
mournful enjoyment. Once she raised her head, 
startled, fancying she heard the sound of falling 
rain, but it was only the wind rustling the dry 
branches of the cocoa-nut trees. 

After the lapse of about half an hour, Mrs. Moore 
came and gently tapped her on the shoulder. 

Your Papa is awkke. Missy, and he seemed to 
look round for you ; do go to him. And do you 
not think I had better light a candle. Missy ?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Moore, do; but do not place it too 
near — the light might annoy him.” 

Beatrice walked up to the bed, and took her fa- 
ther’s hand. He pressed it slightly, and smiled at 
her, and said: “I have no pain, love; Jesus is with 


The Christian Death-Bed. 139 

me. He makes my dying bed easy. Dear Lord, I 
come to Thee !” 

After speaking at intervals for a short time, he 
seemed to doze again. 

“ Mrs. Moore,” said Beatrice, “ how clear and 
bright all is with him ! May we find it so at our 
last hour.” 

“It is indeed. Missy; ‘the Lord comforteth the 
souls of his saints and he has promised to be with 
them in the dark valley.” 

Madame de Tremonille stole softly in, several times, 
to comfort Beatrice; once she brought her, with her 
own hands, a cup of tea, and made her drink it ; 
and again she came and remained, while Mrs. Moore 
went out of the room to have her supper, that Bea- 
trice might not be left alone in case of Mr. Evelyn’s 
sudden departure. 

At eleven o’clock, he again awoke. “My Bee, 
read to me about Christian going over the river.” 

Beatrice understood him, and fetching a small 
edition of the Pilgrim’s Progress, which lay on his 
dressing-table, she turned to the passage and read it 
in a low, clear voice. 

“ Thank you, love, I am nearly in the river ; I 
feel as though my feet were touching its waters. 
Dear Saviour, receive me !” 

Widow Moore raised the quilt and put her hand 
on his feet. They were icy cold. She beckoned to 
12 


140 Grkatnes 3 m Little Things. 

Beatrice, and whispered : “ He ’ll not be kept long 
waiting now, Missy.” 

Mr. Evelyn seemed to lie in a dreamy state for 
some minutes. Presently he spoke again : “ I see 
them ! I see the shining ones !” he said, faintly, 
‘‘and my Mary is among them.” He spoke no 
more, and about half past two o’clock, with a gentle 
sigh, he breathed his last! Widow Moore made a 
sign to Beatrice that all was over — they sank on 
their knees in prayer — no word was spoken — 
they were alone with the dead 1 

In a short time, Mrs. Moore rose and said to Bea- 
trice : 

“Missy, you had better go now; I have some 
things to attend to here, and you must try and get 
some sleep.” 

Beatrice shook her head, but went out. 

She walked along the passage to Madame de Tre- 
monille’s room, and knocking at the door, found her 
awake. 

“ Is that you, dear Beatrice ?” she said ; “I have 
been several times to the door to listen if I could 
hear your father’s voice — but all was so still.” 

“ He is gone !” said Beatrice ; “we shall never 
more hear his voice. Oh ! Papa !” 

“He is at rest,” said Madame de Tremonille. 
“ Oome, dear, and lie down by me.” 


The Christian Death-bed. 


141 


Beatrice could say no more — her heart was too full 
to speak — and putting her arm round her friend, she 
lay down by her side, and wearied, with fatigue and 
watching, she fell toward morning into a troubled 
doze. 

“No voice in the chamber, 

No sound in the hall ; 

Sleep and oblivion 
Eeign over all.” — Longfellow. 


CHAPTEE VII. 


“ We will be patient and assuage the feeling, 

We may not wholly stay— 

By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have sway.” — L ongfellow. 

At sunset the following day, the little funeral 
procession moved from Palm Hill, bearing Mr. 
Evelyn’s earthly remains to their last resting-place. 
He was laid in the burial-ground of the little Scotch 
church; and Mr. Campbell gave a touching and 
solemn address to the mourners, among wdiom w^ere 
Mr. Gisborne, and Dr. Mason, and all Madame de 
Tremonille’s servants. Beatrice did not go — she 
had no mourning prepared ; and, beside, she w^as 
afraid, lest, by not being able to control her feelings, 
she might disturb the solemnity of the scene. She 
remained alone in her room, engaged in prayer. 

The party dispersed after the funeral. Tea was 
set in the veranda, and Madame de Tremonille and 
Blanche sat there, quietly chatting together in the 
twilight. There was a sadness over little Blanche’s 

spirits, visible in the unusual quietness of her 
r 142 ) 


Departed Spirits. 


143 


(lenioanor. She brought a little stool, and placing it 
iit her aunt’s feet, she laid her head in her lap. Ma- 
dame do Tremonille stroked her soft curls, and kissed 
her fondly; but Blanche lay still, looking out into 
the garden. “Mamma,” she said, “do people, 
when they are dead, know what happens on earth ? 
Do dear Papa and Uncle Eugene know anything 
about us ?” 

“My darling, I fully believe it. I believe the 
spirits of those we love, are often near us. You 
know the spirit, Blanche, means that part of us 
which thinks and feels, but which we cannot see ; it 
is our real selves — for our bodies, you, know, are 
only called ‘ tabernacles,’ that is, tents or coverings, 
for our spirits to dwell in. At the last day, our 
spirits will have tabernacles again, only they will be 
bright and beautiful ones — not full of sickness and 
pain, as these bodies are. Do you understand me, 
darling?” 

“Yes, Mamma, I think I do; but what do you 
mean when you say, a spirit is in heaven ? A spirit 
cannot wear white robes, and play on a golden 
harp ?” 

“ Well, dear, we are not given to understand per- 
fectly the state of the soul after death ; but in some 
way or other, the souls of believers are certainly 
perfectly happy, and with God. I think that descrip- 
tion of the white robes, and the palms, and the 


144 Greatness in Things. 

mansions in the heavenly city, must all refer to 
what will take place after the judgment day.” 

“ Mamma, it is so wonderful to think of our last- 
ing forever !” 

“It is indeed, my child; the idea of Eternity is 
beyond what our minds can grasp. It has been 
illustrated in a most forcible manner, by an old 
writer. He says : ‘ Suppose a bird were to under- 
take to remove this whole earth to Some other place, 
and this bird were but able to carry one single grain 
at a time, and that it should take her a thousand years 
to fly to the place where she had to deposit it, — that 
when all this earth, with its mountains and valleys, 
and plains, should have been removed in this man- 
ner, we should still be as far from the end of eternit^’^ 
as we were before the bird began to carry a single 
grain.’ This is the idea he expresses, though they 
are not the exact words.” 

“ Mamma, it is almost too wonderful ! I wonder 
that knowing this, does not make people think of 
their souls more.” 

“ My dear child, people know many things with- 
out believing them ; that is, without applying that 
knowledge practically to themselves. They seem to 
go on, living in a kind of dream, believing in their 
head^ that the Bible is true, but their heart is 
untouched by it, and they wake up to see their folly 
when it is too late.” 


Beatrice’s Kesignation. 145 

“ Mamma, we ought to trj and wake up as many 
people as we can, ought we not ?” 

“Yes! indeed, my darling; may God give us 
strength to do so — ^but now I think I will go and see 
if dear Beatrice will join us ; poor girl, she must 
feel so lonely. We must try and make her as happy 
as we can, while she is with us, Blanche.” 

“ I think I will run out, before it is too dark, and 
get her some flowers,” said Blanche— “ they often do 
me good when I feel sorry.” She tripped lightly 
out, and Madame de Tremonille looked fondly after 
her, as the little white figure disappeared among the 
trees, round the corner of the garden. 

There was something too holy and happy about 
her father’s death, for it to be in accordance with 
Beatrice’s feelings to yield to any violent or exclu- 
sive grief. She felt his loss much, it is true, but 
yet she felt much calmer than even she herself had 
anticipated. An hour’s communion with God, had 
made the things of time, earthly sorrows and cares, 
seem as very light, compared with the “ glory that 
shall be revealed.” And it was with a heart nerved 
to do her duty calmfully and trustfully, and with a 
countenance serene, though not joyful, that she 
walked to meet Madame de Tremonille, when the 
latter entered her room. 

“Dear Beatrice!” said her friend, gently kissing 
her ; “ do you think you could come and take tea, 


146 Greatness in Little Things. 

quietly, with little Blanche and me ? — we should be 
very glad if you would come, but please yourself 
about it.” 

“ I will come !” said Beatrice ; “ I should like it, 
dear Isabelle. Come, let us go 1” 

“Where is Blanche?” continued she, as they 
reached the veranda. 

“ She will be here in a minute ; she ran into the 
garden just now,” was the reply. 

In two or three minutes, a light footstep was 
heard stealing softly in ; it was now so dark they 
could scarcely see one another’s face. Blanciie 
threw her arms round Beatrice’s neck, and said — 
“ I have been to fetch you something to do you 
good, dear Beatrice — smell these flowers I” 

“Thank you very much, darling, they are just 
what I like !” 

“ Blanche ! run and tell Pomio to bring candles 
here,” said her aunt, “ or else it will not be possi- 
ble for me to pour out the tea.” 

Candles were brought, and with their coming, 
they had to close the jalousies and door of the 
veranda, or otherwise the entrance of the light would 
be a signal for the invasion of such a swarm of 
moths, musquitoes, and insects of all kinds, as effec- 
tually to interrupt conversation. 

After they had seated themselves at the tea-table, 
Madame de Tremonille said, in a gentle and almost 


Kind Considerations. 


147 


hesitating voice — “I can go early, to-morrow mom-* 
ing, into the town, and get such things as you may 
require for your mourning, if you wish me to do so, 
dear Beatrice. I was thinking that, perhaps, you 
might not wish to go yourself, and you can tell me 
just what 3"ou want.” 

Beatrice understood her kind consideration, and 
felt grateful for it. “ Thank you !” she replied, “ I 
should be very glad to have it as soon as possible, 
and I think I had rather stay quietly here at home 
a little while ; beside,” she added, “ I feel I must 
make up my mind to write home and tell them all 
of— of— ” 

She could not finish the sentence, and laying her 
head down on her hands, her frame, for a few min- 
utes, shook with convulsive grief. 

“ Dear Beatrice !” said Madame de Tremonille, 
softly, after a pause — “had you rather I should 
write ?” 

“ Ko! thank you,” was the reply ; “ I think I will 
write to Walter, and let him break it to dear Hetty 
and Aunt Louisa.” 

“ How soon do you think you might expect an 
answer from them ?” 

“ In about five or six weeks, I should think.” 

It was then arranged that widow Moore’s daugh- 
ter-in-law, Lucy, should come to the house for a few 
days to assist in making the mourning, and after 
13 


148 Greatness in Little Things. 

some further conversation, the servants were sum- 
moned to prayers, and the whole family retired for 
the night. Beatrice’s sojourn at Balm Hill, while 
awaiting a letter from New York, was made as plea- 
sant as possible to her by all her friends. Madame 
de Tremonille’s kindness was unceasing; she was 
not, indeed, one of those who would seek to banish 
the loss of a dear friend from the mind, by a round 
of amusements — her good feeling, and her own deep 
and recent loss, forbade this, — but she had so many 
useful plans afloat, and had so much life and energy, 
that Beatrice was always interested and occupied, 
and that did much to prevent brooding over trouble. 
Among other things, Beatrice began to teach little 
Nelly, Pomio’s daughter, to read — telling Blanche 
that she should leave her under her charge when she 
returned to America. Nelly was an apt pupil, but 
rather inclined to be lazy ; she had also an invinci- 
ble propensity for lying — a habit but too common 
among the negro children in the West Indies. She 
always appeared to say that which she thought 
would please the person addressing her, without any 
regard at all to the truth of what she was saying. 
One day Madame de Tremonille sent her to Mr. 
Campbell’s house with a message, and on her return 
she described what the minister was doing, and 
entered so minutely into particulars as to say, that 
she found the garden-gate open. Now it appeared 


Little Nelly. 


149 


afterward that this message was never delivered at 
all, that the child had never been near the house, 
having gone off to play in another direction, and 
yet she never hesitated at all in her story. Poor 
Nelly! her moral sense seemed exceedingly dead- 
ened, and Beatrice scarcely knew what to do with 
her. She was an affectionate little thing, though, 
after all. Her features, for a negro, were not at all 
unpleasant ; she had very bright sparkling eyes, and 
seemed invariably to dress in the brightest of pink 
calicoes, with handkerchiefs of every variety of hue 
tied round her head, below which used to escape 
little plaited ends of frizzled hair, tied with any 
string that could be got hold of. Some of Nelly’s 
ideas were very primitive. One day when Beatrice 
was teaching her her lessons, she said to her : 

“ Missy, one woman tell me, to-day, dat de sun 
nebber shine in England, where Missis come from, 
(pointing to Madame de Tremonille, who was 
working in the room,) and dat when dey wash 
clothes, dey have to dry ’ em by the fire ! Ha, ha !” 
and Nelly chuckled at the idea of the barbarous 
country. 

Beatrice and Madame de Tremonille laughed, — 
the latter said: “ Well, Nelly, I can tell you that the 
sun does shine there, and very brightly too; but 
there is a time of the year, called Winter, when it is 
cold and wet, and the sun is not so hot, and then 


150 Greatness in Little Things. 

people do really sometimes have to dry clothes by 
the fire.”* 

“Well, come, Nelly, if you are satisfied, let us go 
on reading,” said Beatrice. 

Mr. Campbell often came over from the Manse to 
spend a quiet evening with them : he was such a su- 
perior young man that his company was always a 
source of pleasure and gratification. He got Beatrice 
to interest herself in several of his plans for good, 
among his people, and asked her to take a class in 
his school. One evening, about sunset, Madame 
de Trernonille sent Nelly to ask him to come over 
and take tea with them. Nelly returned to say, 
that Mr. Campbell was with old Joe Ward, but that 
his servant said, she would tell him when he 
came in. 

“How long old Ward lingers,” said Beatrice. 

“Yes, indeed,” said Madame de Trernonille; 
“ but I heard this afternoon, from Lucy, that he 
seemed very low to-day, and that she thought he 
conld not last long.” 

“It will be a ‘ happy release,’ in the true sense of 
the word,” said Beatrice. 

“You may well .say, in the true sense of the 
w^ord ; it often pains me to hear persons thought- 
lessly apply the sentence, when speaking of the death 

* Nelly’s character is drawn from that of a little negro servant of 
the author. 


Old Joe. 


161 


of those to whom their departure from the body must 
be anything but a happy release — of those whose 
happiness lay in this world, and this world only. 
But in old Joe’s case we have had evidence that 
his treasure is above.” 

Just that minute there came a gentle knock at the 
door, and Mr. Campbell entered. After shaking 
hands with Madame de Tremonille and Beatrice, 
he said : “ 1 have just come from a happy death- 
bed — old Joe is at rest. His little grand-daughter 
came to tell me, about half an hour ago, that he 
seemed very near his end, and that Mrs. Moore, who 
was with him, wished me to come up. I had not 
been ten minutes in the house before he breathed 
his last. His senses seemed quite clear to the end, 
and he spoke to me several times. 

“Massa Campbell,” said he, when I came in, 
“I’m gwine, at last, to my Saviour! Oh! dear 
Jesus I’m berry happy to come to Thee.” Again, 
he said, after a pause of two or three minutes, 
“ Massa Campbell, will you bury me underneath 
dem large trees on de side of de hill, where I used 
to go fur to seek de Lord ? I should like to lie dere.” 

I assured him it should be as he wished. The 
trees, I believe, are on Mr. Gisborne’s estate, 
but I have no doubt I shall be able to arrange the 
matter with him. A little while before he died he 
said : “ Tell Miss Evelyn, the young lady at the hill. 


152 


Greatness in Little Things. 


that Pm gwine to see her dear father, and help him 
to sing praises — yes! lieli>-him — help-him — oh! 
that will be joyful ! joyful ! joyful ” — and giving a 
sort of sigh of satisfaction, his freed spirit was 
away. 

The tears stood in Beatrice’s eyes at this reference 
to her father. Mr. Campbell rose and walked to the 
window. 

“O! do just look at your little Blanche, Madame 
de Tremonille,” said he, how hard she is working 
at cleaning that flower-bed ; and she seems to have 
imbued Nelly with her own energetic spirit too, for 
a time ; look at her carrying backward and forward 
the watering pans of water for the plants.” 

Madame de Tremonille rose and looked out. 
Blanche was kneeling on a piece of old matting, with 
her white frock caret’ully pinned up behind, rooting 
away among the weeds with an old knife, with all 
her might — occasionally stopping to direct Nelly’s 
energies in the way of watering. 

“ Suppose we go and look at the little gardener,” 
said Madame de Tremonille; ‘‘the evening is de- 
lightful now.” 

“Well done, Blanche,” said Mr. Campbell, as they 
approached; “if you want to keep your aunt’s gar- 
den all in such pattern neatness as that plot, I think^ 
you will have to get me to help you — the weeds grow’ 
so very fast here, almost like Jack’s bean-stalk.” 


The Garden, 


153 


Blanche started, and then laughed merrily at 
being surprised — “ thank you, Mr. Campbell,” she 
said, “ when I. have anything very hard to do, I will 
send for you ; but, you know, this piece is my own 
garden, that mamma gave me to take care of, and 
keep for myself — the worst of it is,” she continued, 
sighing — “I cannot keep those tiresome chickens 
from coming in, and scratching up the ground, and 
spoiling the looks of it.” 

“ Well now, what can be done ?” said Mr. Camp- 
bell, kindly — “I have it. You see, Blanche, this 
garden of yours, is a large piece, and those trees at 
the back of it, with the wall behind, protect it well 
there — now do you not think, that you and I could 
manage to put up a nice little paling all round it, 
and a little gate in front? Eh ! what do you think 
of that plan ? and then you might clip your chickens’ 
wings, so that they could not fly over, without 
hurting them at all — ” 

“Well, that would be a very nice plan, said 
Blanche thoughtfully, but how could I get at the 
bed, to tidy it, if the paling were in the way?” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Campbell, “ if your aunt will 
give us leave, we will inclose a slip of the lawn in- 
side the paling, so as to leave room for you to walk 
round your garden, and we can make a nice little 
path right up the middle.” 


154 Greatness in Little Things. 

“O! thank you,” said Blanche, clapping her 
hands, “ that will be charming — when will you come 
and begin 

“ Well, to-morrow evening, perhaps, if I am not 
very busy ; if I can, I will come for a little time in 
the cool of the morning — only you must promise to 
be up to help me — ” 

“ Indeed I will, said Blanche, I always get up 
very, very early.” 

“ I have been getting some trellis- work made, to 
put over the porch, at the Manse,” said Mr. Camp- 
bell, “ and some of the pieces of lath which are left, 
will do capitally for our paling.” 

“ Well, we will leave you to your weeding now, 
Blanche,” said her aunt, let us all go, and take a 
walk down the road, Mr. Campbell ; the evening is 
too pleasant to go in-doors, yet.” 

“I suppose, you intend training creepers over 
your trellis-work, Mr. Campbell,” said Beatrice — 

“Yes,” said he, “I do so love to see, what is 
beautiful around me ; I think, as far as we can, we 
should surround our homes with the lovely and 
simple objects of nature. I often think that the 
appearance of a man’s house and garden, is a sort 
of index to his mind and character.” 

“Indeed, it is,” said Madame de Tremonille, “I 
often think, too, that without allowing our minds 
to become at all absorbed by the luxuries and 


Tictdees Usefui.. 


155 


pleasures of this life, we should be feelingly alive 
to the perception of whatever is beautiful. Whatever 
is beautiful is good ; that is, the beauty in the ob- 
ject, is a sort of glimpse of perfection — a revelation, 
a foreshadowing from above — whether it is a beauti- 
ful landscape, or a lovely face, or even a picture or 
statue, or any other work of art. “ I remember 
reading, I think it was in Lord Lindsay’s ‘ Christian 
Art,’ ” said Mr. Campbell, in reference to some 
of the old masters — some of the finest painters the 
world has ever produced — “ that before tiiey began 
to paint a picture, they would kneel down and pray 
to God, to inspire their eflforts — to help them to 
form just conceptions of their subjects, wdiich were 
mostly taken from sacred history. Now how many 
of their pictures seem to raise and exalt the mind, 
when gazing at them. Look at Titian’s ‘ Last Supper,’ 
or Michael Angelo’s ‘ Judgment,’ or some of Carlo 
Dolci’s exquisite heads of Christ, and many others.” 

“ I remember,” said Madame de Tremonille, 
“ the intense delight I experienced, when my pa- 
rents took me, while we were staying in London, 
previous to our sailing for this country, to see sev- 
eral of the best collections both of pictures and sta- 
tuary. To gaze thus on the embodied conceptions 
of loveliness, produced by the noblest souls, seemed 
to raise my mind to a sort of rapture of sympathy, 
if I may so say — ” 


156 Greatness in Litfle Things. 

“ And yet, in some of these pictures, we see de- 
picted some of the most disgusting legends of the 
Komish Church,” said Mr. Campbell ; “ look at 
the marriage of St. Catharine, for instance — that is 
quite blasphemous, I think.” 

“ That is very true,” replied Madame de Tremon- 
ille, ‘‘ in many other instances. I confess, I have felt 
displeased myself, when looking at some of the pic- 
tures of the Virgin and Child ; in those especially, 
where the Saviour is made a subordinate object. 

“ And yet,” said Beatrice, “ the simple idea of 
the Virgin Mary, as the Mother of Jesus, and of 
his being a little helpless infant, in her lap, is so 
beautiful, that I do not wonder at its having been 
chosen as a subject for painting some of the Madon- 
nas; Raphael’s especially seem, from the prints I 
have seen from his pictures, to be represented as 
lost in love and adoration for the holy Infant, — 
which is as it should be. Look at the ‘ Vierge de 
la Chaise,’ for instance, where the attention both 
of the Virgin and the young John the Baptist, seems 
entirely centered in the Divine Child.” 

•‘That is true,” said Madame de Tremonille, “I 
think we should try and admire whatever is good 
and beautiful in every picture, and condemn all that 
is erroneous and discordant — if our minds are true 
and right toward God, we shall be enabled readily 
to discern what is of Him, and what is not.” 


Thr Pretty Idea. 


167 


“ You are very right,” replied Mr. Campbell ; “I 
remember that, when reading the book I referred to, 
(Lord Lindsay’s Christian Art,) I saw that some — 
indeed, I may say very many — of the legends which 
furnished subjects for pictures, consisted of fabulous 
stories invented by the Romish priests, and which 
were calculated to do a great deal of harm. Some 
of them, however, contained ideas of much beauty. 
I remember, now we speak of it, one of them, which 
mentions Mary Magdalene as having existed, after 
the death of our Lord, in a state of such holiness 
and happy calm of soul, that she was filled with 
love to God in such a degree, that it served her both 
for meat and drink, and she retired, sustained by 
that alone, to a desert place, to hold communion 
with her risen Lord. The idea struck me as a 
pretty one, and I remember versifying it, during a 
leisure hour, while 1 was a student.” 

“ Could you remember the words, Mr. Camp- 
bell ?” said Beatrice. 

“ I think 1 can. I will repeat them to you, if you 
will listen so long : 

“ She shone in the desert, a form of light, 

That maid rob’d in vesture of purest white; 

In the wide sandy waste, in the sulpTiurous air. 

How might one so beautiful harbor there ? 

“ The fierce suramer-sun, in its noontide blaze. 

Only poiired all around her its softest rays; 


] Greatness in Litile Things.’ 

Which lingered and glanced, as if fain to tell, 

They ne’er should meet aught they could love so well. 

“ Not a palm-tree waved ’gainst the lurid sky, 

Save the cluster that grew o’er her, dark and high. 

Not a single green leaflet its nurture found. 

Not a gurgling brook laved the thirsty ground: 

“ Yet, in calm peace, she rested, nor faded away, , 

As beauteous at eve as at breaking of day; 

And the meat she was fed with, was heavenly love. 

Tuned softly from gold harps of angels above. 

“ And every morn, at the sun’s rising hour. 

Lest her spirit should faint ’neath its fierce noontide power, 
Lol a group of bright messengers bore her on high. 

And a seraph’s spread wing was her canopy. 

“ In the shadowy region where mystery has birth. 

Where it scarcely seems heaven, yet ohl ’t is not earth; 

She listened, entranced, to that ravishing strain. 

And her sprit’s love bloomed into brightness again. 

I - 

“ So again, when the sun, ’neath yon broad line of sand. 

Had left to cool shadows the thirsty land; 

And pillowed on ether the soft clouds lay. 

Or stretched into nothingness far away: 

01 how her blest hours all in rapture flew by. 

With a heart tuned to praise, and her God ever nigh; 

What to her were the sun’s beams or shadows of night, _ 
With a spirit thrilled through with ecstatic delight ! 

“ And ever anon her tranced lips moved slow. 

As if conning some melody sweet and low; 

Which was tuned to her ear by the spirits on high, 

In strains of divinest harmony. 


Contemplation. 


159 


‘‘ Thank you,” said Madame de Treraonille, “ I 
like that idea of calm, contemplative love. It seems 
to give one some faint conception of the state of the 
glorified body after the resurrection. I suppose the 
sensations of rapture will be such that a thousand 
years will be as one day.” 

“I remember,” replied Mr. Campbell, “seeing 
that thought beautifully illustrated in a poem by 
Trench, called, I think, ‘ The Monk and the Bird/ 
He represents the Monk as doubting the possibility 
of perfect happiness in a future state, without some 
variety of employment. Walking, one day, in a 
wood, God causes him to hear a bird singing such 
ravishing notes that he is spell-bound, and when he 
returns home to his brother-monks, he finds that he 
has been years absent — that they have become old 
men while he was listening to the exquisite song, so 
lost in admiration as not to perceive the fiight of 
time. I cannot remember the verses, but this is the 
sense of them.” 

“ I think,” said Beatrice, “ that although it would 
not, of course, be right for us to retire entirely from 
the world and give ourselves up to contemplation 
and prayer, as God has given each of us a duty to 
perform in this life ; yet still, a near approach to 
this feeling of which you have been speaking, is 
sometimes attained by experienced Christians when 
engaged in prayer. I remember a nurse we had» 


160 Greatness in Litile Things. 

when I was a child, who used often to become so 
lost in prayer as to be entirely unconscious of any 
outward objects — her thoughts would seem to rise, 
she would say, ‘ right up to heaven.’ She remained 
with us till I was about fifteen, and able to converse 
with her on such subjects. After she left us, she 
went to live in a small house not very far from ours, 
with a brother who was a widower, and I used often 
to go and see her. She fell into bad health, after a 
time, and about three years ago she died. I remem- 
ber, one day, saying to her, ‘ How glad you will be, 
Hurse, to see the Saviour you have loved so long !’ 
She said, impressively : ‘Miss Beatrice, I have seen 
my Saviour several times. Sometimes I have seemed 
to get so near to Him that He has given me a 
glimpse of himself. Yes, I feel I have seen Him.’ 
How, I dare not call this imagination or enthu- 
siasm.” 

“I think you are right,” said Mr. Campbell, 
thoughtfully ; “it is certain that the nearer a Chris- 
tian lives to God, the clearer is the revelation he 
gives of himself.” 

“I am afraid we must be going in now,” said 
Madame de Tremonille; “the dew is falling quite 
heavily.” 

“ Mr. Campbell,” said Beatrice, as they entered 
the house, “who is to take charge of old Ward’s 
grandchild — she seems left quite without friends ?” 


Evening Soiree. 


161 


“Well, she seems to have found one in widow 
Moore,” was the reply; “she says, she will take 
care of the little thing, to keep it out of harm’s way, 
and Lucy says, she shall be glad to have her to take 
charge of her baby while she is sewing. I believe 
she is a good needle- woman, and might earn a good 
deal that way.” 

“ She is,” said Beatrice ; “ but I must run into 
the garden and call Blanche, — that child will catch 
cold in her enthusiasm for gardening.” 

The rest of the evening was spent in pleasant con- 
versation, enlivened with music, by both Madame 
de Tremonille and Beatrice. The piano at Palm 
Hill had been hired from a Jew dealer in the town, 
who kept a tolerable supply- — most of his stock being 
purchased from merchants and others leaving the 
island. It was a tolerably good one, and both our 
friends had sweet voices, and sang duets together 
delightfully. Blanche was learning to play, Bea- 
trice being her music- mistress for the present, as she 
insisted on taking the drudgery of teaching the rudi- 
ments off Madame de Tremonille’s hands. Beatrice 
had brought a small supply of new music with her 
from Hew York, and this she gladly added to her 
friend’s stock, knowing that it is difficult to procure 
good new music in the West Indies. 

When Mr. Campbell spent the evening at Palm 
Hill he always read prayers to the household, who 


162 Greatoess in Little Things. 

were all much attached to him— indeed, so were all 
his people — and scarcely a day passed by without 
some of the negroes coming to his house with an 
offering of a fowl, some honey, or yams, or some 
other trifle for “good Massa Campbell.” 

The next morning, while Madame de Tremonille 
and Beatrice were sitting quietly at work in the 
drawing-room, chatting together, with little Blanche 
learning her lessons in her favorite nook, in the win- 
dow, they heard the sound of carriage- wheels coming 
up the hill, and presently Pomio ushered in Mary 
and Caroline Gisborne. They were lively, voluble 
girls, with plenty of fun and conversation. 

“ My dear girls,” said Madame de Tremonille, 
“ how could you think of coming out in this hot sun, 
at this time of day, in that open phaeton ? why you 
will quite spoil your English complexions.” 

“01 I don’t think there’s much of them left 
already,” said Caroline, laughing; “there’s Mary 
there, as brown as a berry ; she always persists in 
rushing about the garden at home, without any 
bonnet.” 

“ Rushing about the garden, Caroline ! why, what 
nonsense you talk,” said Mary, who had established 
herself on the sofa by Beatrice’s side, and had 
thrown off her bonnet; “I only run across to the 
kitchen sometimes, to give directions to old Sally, 
or, perhaps, to the coop, to feed my chickens ; 


Bathing Place. 163 

and it is not worth while to dress one’s self for 
that.” 

“Well, I have been longer in the country than 
you have,” said Madame de Tremonille, “and I 
really advise you to be careful, Mary. I knew a 
gentleman, a friend of my father’s, who had a sun- 
stroke from incautiously exposing himself to the 
heat, and he has been weak in his mind ever 
since.” 

“ Dear me,” said Caroline, laughing, “ that will 
quite account for some of your vagaries of late, 
Mary ; you had better take care or you will become 
quite crazy.” 

“ Caroline ! how can you be so absurd. I am 
quite as sane as yourself,” rejoined her sister. 

“ How delightfully cool and pleasant it is up here,” 
said Caroline ; “ there seems much more air than 
there is at Shady Grove, and you have such a pretty 
peep at the sea, too, from this window. It looks so 
bright and sparkling I sometimes long for a dip. 
Don’t you remember the fun we used to have with 
the old bathing- women at Hastings, Mary ?” 

“ I know of a delightful place for bathing, about 
a mile and a half from here,” said Madame de Tre- 
monille. “ My father’s church was in that direction, 
and in the course of my explorations, before I was 
married, I discovered the place, and often bathed 

there myself.” 

14 


1C4 Greatness in Litixe Things. 

‘‘ How can there be any place for bathing only 
a mile and a half from here ?” said Beatrice, “ I 
thought we were three miles from the sea.” 

“ So we are, in the direction of the town ; but if 
you follow a steepish path down the road immedi- 
ately behind this house, you will see a place where 
the land treads in considerably, forming a small 
bay, and the sea is here generally delightfully 
smooth, and the shore is protected by high rocks.” 

“O! I’m sure the thing might be managed,” 
said Mary, gleefully, “if we started by five in the 
morning, do not you, dear Beatrice ? and you know, 
Caroline and I could come up from Shady Grove on 
our ponies, and then take them with us to help the 
tired ones of the party.” 

“ Yes ! and we will take Nelly with us to help to 
carry the bathing accouterments,” said Madame de 
Tren^onille. So it was arranged, and after chatting 
some time and taking lunch at Balm Hill, Caroline 
and Mary left, promising to be there punctually at 
five the following morning. 

“ O ! the luxuriant freshness of a morning in the 
tropics!” thought Beatrice, as she rose and looked 
out of her window just as the gray dawn was break- 
ing next day — there was such a delightful fragrance 
in the air — such a dewy calm, that it filled her with 
delight. She made, however, a hasty toilette, for 
she had heard the sound of ponies’ feet trotting up 


Bathing, 


165 


the avenue some minutes before, and on passing 
through into the veranda, she found Caroline and 
Mary awaiting her. 

“ Well ! Beatrice, is n’t this delightful ?” said 
Caroline, enthusiastically ; “ you see we have come 
quite in dishabille ; these cotton wrappers are capi- 
tal, are they not ?” 

“Just the thing,” said Beatrice; “I suppose we 
are not likely to meet any one, and I am going to 
take my old American sun-bonnet, it will be so nice 
to cover my wet hair as we are coming home.” 

Just then Madame de Tremonille joined them, 
and after wishing all the party good morning, she 
said — “I have enlisted Jeannette’s services also, 
for we shall want some one to stand at the entrance 
of the path to prevent intruders. O! here she 
comes with Blanche and Nelly.” 

The road to the shore was soon traversed ; being 
all down hill, it was easy work, and when they arrived 
at the spot, many were the exclamations of delight 
and rapture which burst from all lips. A low fringe 
of trees skirted the shore, efiectually screening it 
from the road. Through these a narrow foot-path 
had been made ; the rocks were uneven, gradually 
shelving toward the water, which rippled clear and 
sparkling at their feet. In one place there were 
natural stepping-stones, forming an easy means of 
descent, and the water for some twenty yards out, 


Greatness in liiTTLE Things. 

was only four or five feet deep, and clear white sand 
sparkled at the bottom. It was the beau-ideal of a 
place for bathing, and there were screams of delight 
from Mary and Caroline. The sun had not yet 
risen and it was delightfully cool, and very soon 
there was a merry party splashing about in the 
water. Blanche remained under Madame de Tre- 
monille’s care, glad, indeed, to do so, being some- 
what afraid of going out of her depth. 

After they had been in a few minutes, Nelly, who 
was sitting on the rocks with their clothes, called 
out in a plaintive voice — “ Missy Beatrice, may I 
come in de water 

“Well! Nelly, perhaps you had better stay till 
Jeannette is at liberty, and then you can bathe 
together.” 

“ Oh 1 Missy, let me stay in all de time, while 
she bathe and while you bathe, me can swim like 
fish. Missy.” 

“Well! then, come on!” and presently Nelly’s 
little dark form was seen to plunge fearlessly oflT the 
point of a rock into some rather deep water which 
lay on the other side. 

“Take care, take care, Nelly!” called Blanche, 
but the little thing was splashing about in great glee, 
and now came swimming quickly toward the party, 
using that peculiar paddling motion common among 
the negro children. She soon ventured out to sea 


The Shark. 167 

for a considerable distance, and the rest of the party 
forgot her for a time. 

They were amusing themselves by trying to float 
and swim, when on a sudden Caroline Gisborne 
uttered an exclamation in a tone of horror, and stood 
upright in the water ; her companions looked at her 
in amazement, and saw her turn very white and 
point with her finger out to sea. Above the crest 
of a wave was to be seen a dark object, slowly ap- 
proaching the shore — it was the fin of an enormous 
shark. “ Where is Nelly?” cried all voices; “Nelly! 
Nelly! child, swim for your life!” But the poor 
child, though she heard them, and was several yards 
nearer the shore than the monster, could not move a 
muscle, so paralyzed was she by terror at the sight 
of the shark. They saw it approach her, and then 
rose one long fearful scream from the water, and 
with a cry of horror, the rest of the party fled has- 
tily to the rocks for safety, though in truth, the 
water where they were was too shallow for the shark 
to approach them. Pale and terrified they stood on 
the rocks, and gazed toward the sea ; the water that 
came rippling up toward them so calmly and gently 
was tinged with blood — poor Nelly’s blood ! — ^butn<> 
further trace of her appeared, and shuddering with 
horror, they all hastily began to dress. 

“How shall we tell Pomio,” said Madame de 
Tremonille; “poor fellow, he will be so shocked!” 


168 Gkkatness in Litfle Things. 

“Has he a mother living?” said Mary Gis- 
borne. 

“ No ; Pomio’s wife was cook in our house, and 
fehe died about three years ago ; and the poor man 
seemed so fond of this little one.” 

“ Dear me 1 to think that this should have been 
the end of our excursion, from which we promised 
ourselves so much pleasure,” said Caroline, sighing. 
“ How horrible ! poor little thing ! I feel as if I 
should never forget that scream !” 

“It is indeed, dreadful,” said Madame de Tre- 
monille, “but there is really no danger in bathing 
here, for any one who does not venture out to sea ; 
and i believe, indeed, that it is a rare thing for a 
shark to approach so near shore, as that monster 
did to-day.” 

Jeannette had rushed forward to the rocks, when 
she heard the scream, and Madame de Tremonille 
now placed Blanche on one of the ponies, which 
had been tied outside; and bidding her lead it by 
the bridle, she herself mounted the other, at the 
urgent request of the rest of the party, and the 
whole cavalcade set sorrowfully forward. It seemed, 
too, as if the appearance of the morning had changed 
with their feelings; dark, gloomy clouds hung 
about the horizon, and though the sun had some 
^tinie since risen, his rays were scarcely visible. 
A. low rumbling sound, as of distant thunder, was 


The Earthquake. 169 

heard, and there seemed a kind of stifling stillness 
in the air. 

“ I think we had better make haste home,” said 
Beatrice ; “ look, Isabelle, how dark the clouds are, 
*t feels to me very like a storm — ” 

‘‘ Yes, indeed,” said Madame de Tremonille, “we 
must not delay at all, these tropical showers come 
on so suddenly.” 

The three girls quickened their pace, but none 
of them seemed inclined for much conversation. A 
little while before they reached their destination, 
when within two hundred yards of Palm Hill, they 
all became aware of a most unpleasant sensation. 
They were moving thoughtfully along, when all 
simultaneously experienced a feeling akin to sea-sick- 
ness, and looking at each other, and the surrounding 
objects, they saw the trees bowing, as it were, 
toward them, and a neighboring cottage shaking. 
The ponies stopped, snorted, and trembled violently 
in every joint. 

“ Do not be alarmed,” said Madame de Tremon- 
ille, “ it is only a slight shock of an earthquake — 
the principal force of which, has doubtless spent 
itself in some neighboring island. But Beatrice, 
dear, what is the matter? why how pale you 
look 1” 

“ Oh ! I only feel a little dizzy and faint,” was the 
reply; but before’ Mary and Caroline, wflo were 


1T0 Greatness in Little Things. 

behind, could catch her, Beatrice sank fainting on 
the ground. 

‘‘ Jeannette,” said Madame de Tremonille, calmly, 
“ run into that cottage and get some water as quickly 
as you can ; see, there is the woman herself, at the 
fence, frightened out of her house, I suppose, poor 
creature. Beatrice will be better directly, Mary ; 
it is a common thing for persons to feel in this way, 
after the uncomfortable sensation of an earthquake ; I 
remember once, when I was in the town, seeing sev- 
eral persons faint in the streets, on a similar occasion.” 

‘‘ Dear me ! this does seem a morning of dis- 
asters !” said Caroline. 

Beatrice soon revived, but she appeared weak, 
and was glad to accept a seat on the pony’s back, 
and lie down, as soon as they reached the house. 

Poor Pomio was greatly affected at the loss of 
Nelly, and vowed vengeance against the shark ; and 
for several days after, the poor man might be seen 
sitting on the rocks for hours together, with an old 
double-barreled gun, watching an opportunity of 
putting a bullet in the monster — but it never seemed 
to venture near enough to the shore again for him 
to get a sight of it. 

It was two or three days before the party at Palm 
Hill could recover their usual serenity, or help think- 
ing of poor little Nelly’s fate. The usual routine 
of quiet occupation was followed, and nothing par- 


The Expected Letter. 171 

ticular occurred for several days. Little Blanche’s 
garden had been inclosed by a neat paling, under 
the joint efforts of herself and Mr. Campbell, and 
Beatrice had taken several pleasant rambles with 
Madame de Treuionille. In these walks, Walter 
Grey often furnished the topic of conversation. Bea- 
trice longed, she scarcely could say how anxiously, 
for an answer to her letter, and it was now fast ap- 
proaching the time when she might expect to hear. 
Often, when a ship appeared on the horizon, would 
she gaze anxiously through a telescope, to see if the 
“ stars and stripes” floated from her mast-head. It 
is anxious work waiting, and she found it so. Not 
that she was unhappy at Palm Hill. She loved 
Madame de Tremonille and Blanche too tenderly 
for that, and they did all in their power to make her 
happy ; but her heart’s warmest afiections turned 
naturally toward the husband of her choice. 

Meanwhile, she occupied herself as much as pos- 
sible, and that made the time seem to pass more 
quickly, and she had many sources of interest 
around her. She amused herself with increasing 
her collection of curiosities, and with watching the 
habits and manners of the natives, which interested 
her from their novelty. It was droll to see strings 
of the negroes descending the hills to the market- 
town, driving before them ponies and mules laden 
with large panniers full of fruit and vegetables, 
15 


172 Greatness in Little Things. 

while they themselves followed on foot, carrying 
enormous loads of produce, of every kind, on their 
heads. The women wore short cotton gowns, which 
they made still shorter by tying a handkerchief 
round them a little below the waist, and hitching 
them up — a fashion which certainly added no ele- 
gance to their appearance — while their sturdy black 
legs and feet were bare, though there were generally 
shoes in their bundle, to be put on when they 
reached the town. Often some of them would turn 
aside, with fruit and vegetables, and bring them up 
to Palm Hill for sale. But beside these market- 
people, a black woman of the name of Simpson used 
to come to Madame de Tremonille’s almost every 
day, with ba.: 5 of produce of all kinds. The 
fruits of the country seemed very strange, at first, to 
Beatrice, and, with the exception of the orange, she 
thought them greatly inferior to those of home. 
There were abicado-pears, melons, pine-apples, gua- 
vas, mammy-apples, and many others. Mrs. Simp- 
son was quite a character, and it was amusing to 
see the leisurely way in which she would spread 
out her goods on the veranda, and sit and chat 
about the merits of each. She was very black and 
very plain, with six or seven very black and very 
plain little daughters — one or two of whom generally 
accompanied her. These children rejoiced in the 
finest names possible — there were Victoria, Georgi- 


Mrs. Simpson. 


173 


ana, and Wilhelmina, and a host of others. Mrs. 
Simpson seemed to think herself a person of great 
importance, and one day, after she had finished her 
sale, and was passing along outside the house, Bea- 
trice and Madame de Tr^onille were much amused 
by hearing the followingfonversation. A carpenter, 
wht) was making some repairs outside, called out to 
her: “I say, good woman, how do you sell your 
oranges 

‘‘ TPbma/i, indeed ! Woman! woman P'^ was the 
reply, in tones of increasing anger. ‘‘ Hi ! me know 
me not man^ sah ! but me lady^ sah 1 Dat buckra 
man no gentleman for true !” 

Madame de Tremonille told Beatrice that some 
of these women bring up their dau in a very 

idle, bad way, particularly if they should be at all 
light-colored, not allowing them to perform any 
kind of menial office, but doing all the drudgery 
themselves. She said, that a little while before, a 
friend of hers in town had sent for a rather pretty 
mulatto girl, who was a dressmaker, and after tak- 
ing her pattern and receiving the dress to take 
home, the young lady said “ she would desire her 
mother to call for the parcel in the evening, as she 
could not think of carrying it through the streets 
herself!” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ I love Mm — I trust in Mm, 

He trusteth me alway ; 1 

And so the time flies hopefully, 

Although he’s far away.”— Babbt Cornwall. 

“ Let me not, to the marriage of true minds, 

Admit impediment Shakspeabe, 

Late one afternoon, Madame de Tremonille dis- 
patched Pomio on horseback to the town, to pro- 
cure several articles required in the house, and told 
him to be sure and call at the post-office, to see if 
there was a letter for Beatrice — an American ship 
having been seen to enter the harbor that morning. 
Beatrice awaited Pomio’s return with the greatest 
anxiety ; and when it became time to expect him, 
she could sit still nO longer, but stationed herself 
in the porch, and stood looking down the avenue 
in a state of nervous suspense. In a short time, 
(though it seemed long to her,) he was seen trotting 
up the hill, and Beatrice caught up her sun-bonnet, 
and ran out to meet him. 

“ Any letter for me, Pomio inquired she, breath- 
lessly. 


< 174 ) 


The Letter. 


175 


“Yes, Missy, a big letter from ’Meriky.” And 
Pomio pulled forth the long-looked for treasure from 
the bottom of his basket, carefully wrapped up in 
paper, and handed it to Beatrice. 

“ Thank God ! it is from Walter,” she exclaimed ; 
and tears of joy started to her eyes, and she ran into 
the house, and on to her own room, that she might 
read it undisturbed. Her hands trembled as she 
broke the seal. It ran thus — 

“ New Yorkf . 

“ Mr VERY Dear Beatrice : — 

“I need not tell you, I am sure, with what feel- 
ings of deep grief we received the tidings of your 
dear father’s death ; and I am sure you will know 
how much I myself sorrowed on your own account. 
My dear, dear Beatrice, how desolate you must have 
felt, being so far from home at such a sad time, — 
and yet, I thank God, that He seems to have raised 
up kind friends for yon in that distant land, in your 
hour of trial. How joyful and thankful too, we 
may both feel at the triumphant and happy end of 
our dear father — for may I not call him mine, too, 
as he promised us to each other ? Your dear sister 
Hetty was very much afflicted when I broke to her 
the sad intelligence. Poor child ! she seemed so 
bitterly to regret not having been with you. Your 
aunt, too, seemed to feel it a good deal, and I think 


176 Greatness in Little Things. 

the tidings were quite unexpected by both of them ; 
they said your letters had always been so sanguine. 
And now, dear Beatrice, we must get you home 
among us all again, and that as soon as possible. 
After consulting with my father and mother, I have 
ventured to decide on the following plan, which will, 
I hope and trust, meet your wishes. And this is, 
that I should come and fetch you myself, there being 
manifestly no one else to undertake the charge, even 
if I were willing to let them. Now, my dear Beatrice, 
you will, I hope, understand that I should not wish to 
press you unkindly, or hurry you at all unpleasantly, 
so soon after your great loss, but you will perceive 
that it would not at all do for us to travel too:ether 
without being man and wife ; and, therefore, I en- 
treat you to become mine as soon as possible, after 
my landing at St. Thomas. May I not reckon suf- 
ficiently on your love to feel sure that you will not 
refuse me this request? I know your good sense 
will see the propriety of the arrangement. 

“I hope {D. V.) to be with you in about a week 
after you receive this letter. 1 am obliged to wait a 
few days to complete necessary arrangements here, 
and the ship in which I have engaged a berth sails on 
Monday week. I have just got through college, and 
taken out my diploma, and I am, therefore, ready to 
go down to Mill Town and begin practicing my pro- 
fession, whenever I shall have your own dear self to 


The Proposition. 


177 


accompany me. All here unite in kindest love to 
yourself and little Blanche. God bless you, my 
ever dear Beatrice. 

“ Yours, with sincere love, 

“ Walter Grey. 

“ P. S. I inclose a little note from Hetty, and a 
short one from mamma, likewise.” 

This letter Beatrice read and re-read, while the 
color burned brightly in her cheek, and her hand 
shook with emotion. In one week ! one short week I 
should she see Walter ! O ! it was too much joy ! — 
and then, again, she felt it was almost too soon, as 
the idea of the immediate marriage rose formidably 
before her mind, and she was inclined to dislike the 
arrangement altogether. Then, again, came the 
thought — ‘‘But I’m sure Walter would not have 
proposed this plan if it had not been right and 
necessary — and are we not already promised to each 
other ?” “ Dear Walter,” she thought, as she again 

looked at the letter, “how good and kind he is.” 
Tears filled her eyes, and throwing herself on her 
knees by her bed-side, she poured out her heart in 
thankfulness to her heavenly Father, and then rose, 
and taking the letter in her band, she went to seek 
Madame de Tremonille. The latter was in the 
drawing-room reading, when Beatrice entered, and 
on seeing her, exclaimed — 


1T8 Greatness in Little Things. 

“ Why, Beatrice, dear, I was beginning to get 
quite anxious as to the contents of your letter. Po- 
mio told me you had received one, but you have 
been shut up with it so long my curiosity could 
hardly stand it. However, I see my fears were 
groundless,” said she, smiling, and looking up into 
Beatrice’s blushing face, which certainly wore no 
very dolorous expression. 

Well then, read for yourself, dear Isabelle,” said 
Beatrice, putting the letter into her hands, “and 
then tell me your opinion, as to its contents” — and 
sitting down on the sofa by her friend’s side, and 
putting her arm round her waist, she bid her face 
against her shoulder till she had concluded. 

“ I am sure your Walter is i*ight, dear Beatrice,” 
said Madame de Tremonille, when she bad finished 
the letter. “ I think it is the very best plan that 
could possibly have been arranged. I need not tell 
you that, so far as I am concerned, I am delighted 
with it: the wedding will of course, take place from 
this house, and it shall be conducted in such a quiet 
way, as will be consistent both with your circum- 
stances, and my own My dear friend,” she con- 
tinued, kissing her, “ I shall be so glad to see you, a 
happy wife, I am only sorry to lose you so soon.” 

“ Thank you, thank you, for all your kindness,” 
whispered Beatrice, “ you have indeed been a kind 
friend to me.” 


Wedding Garments. 


179 


“O I don’t speak of that, dear Beatrice, but now 
let us consider what we have to do, during the en- 
suing week. What shall we have to get ready for 
you?” 

“Oil shall not want much,” said Beatrice, “I 
should not like, you know, to leave off mourning 
yet ; indeed I think I had better defer getting many 
new things, till I get to New York. 

“Well you could certainly get them much better 
there, and it is very inconvenient traveling with a 
large wardrobe ; but just for the occasion, you might 
wear a simple white dress — don’t you think so ?” 

“Yes, thank you,” replied Beatrice, “that will 
be the best plan. But I shall want to draw on our 
bankers in New York ; I suppose 1 can do this 
through one of the banks here, can I not ?” 

“ O ! yes,” said Madame de Tremonille, “ or I 
dare say you might procure the money from almost 
any of our principal merchants, who are in the habit 
of trading with New York.” 

“Well then, dear Isabelle, will you take me into 
town to-morrow morning, and there we can arrange 
all these matters together ?” 

“Certainly, but would you wish to have a wed- 
ding-cake, dear Beatrice ? because, if so, I shall take 
the charge of that upon myself.” 

“ Thank you, very much,” was the reply, “ but 
my feelings lead me, to wish to have the whole 


180 Greatness in Little Things. 

afiair as quiet as possible — without any fuss or cere- 
mony whatever.” 

So it was arranged for the present, all further 
particulars being left for decision, till Walter Grey 
should arrive — this was now Wednesday, and by 
that day week, he might be with them. Blanche 
was admitted into the secret, and was very much 
pleased, as children generally are, when any event 
of importance is in prospect. Lucy Moore was set 
hard at work, next day, and Beatrice and Madame 
de Tremonille sewed and chatted together, enjoying 
each other’s society as much as possible, before they 
should be called upon to part. 

It was the morning of the following Tuesday. 
How anxiously had Beatrice looked out, toward 
where the blue line of ocean formed the boundary 
of the view from Palm Hill, to see if perchance 
some sail might not be visible on the horizon. 

She almost blamed herself for listlessness and 
idleness, and yet, felt as though it were almost im- 
possible to help getting up from her work, every 
few minutes, to have a look out. The telescope they 
had was so good a one, that she was able readily to 
discern if the vessel were one from her native land, 
and she felt that she should like, herself, to be the 
first to see that which might be conveying one so 
dear to her. 

It was nearly morn. A longer time than usual, 


The Stars and Stripes. 181 

had elapsed, since Beatrice had looked out to sea; 
for she had been busily engaged with Madame de 
Tremonille, in her room, trying on some article of 
dress. Now when she again looked, there was in- 
deed a ship in sight, sailing proudly along with the 
“stars and stripes,” floating from her mast-head, 
and she had already reached nearly midway, be- 
tween the line of distance, and the harbor. 

Beatrice rushed along the passage to tell the good 
news to Madame de Tremonille. 

“I wish you joy, my dear girl,” said her friend; 
“I trust the vessel may indeed have your Walter on 
board : at any rate, I will order the carriage, and we 
will drive down and ascertain if he is really come.” 

“ O ! I feel he is ; 1 hnow he ’s come,” said Bea- 
trice, earnestly. 

“Well then, get ready, and we will go and wel- 
come him,” returned Madame de Tremonille. 

“O! no; indeed I could not,” said Beatrice, 
warmly. “ It may seem odd to you, dear Isabelle, 
but I could not first see him again among a crowd 
of people at the wharf. I could not — indeed I could 
not — welcome him there.” 

Madame de Tremonille smiled — but she under- 
stood her friend’s feelings, and did not press her 
going. She knew that Beatrice’s heart was too full 
for her to trust herself to welcome her chosen hus- 
band amid the impertinent and curious gaze of a 


182 Greatness in Little Things. 

gaping crowd, and a calm salutation would have 
been far too cold a reception. 

“Well, then, Blanche can come with me,” said 
Madame de Tremonille ; “ she has seen Mr. Grey 
before, so she can introduce me to him.” 

It was not long before the carriage rolled away 
from the house, leaving Beatrice in a state of great 
agitation and suspense. She walked uneasily up 
and down the veranda for some time. Then she 
filled the vases in the drawing-room with fresh 
flowers ; and then she got an entertaining book and 
sat down to read, striving to fix her attention in 
order to make the time pass quickly: but though she 
held the book before her eyes, its pages said nothing 
but “Walter,” and we are afraid, she would not have 
stood any very strict questioning as to its contents. 

Twice, with a little womanly vanity, she went to 
her own room to arrange her hair and dress, and to 
steal a glance at her mirror, wondering how Walter 
would think she was looking. And so the time 
passed away, till the sound of approaching wheels 
became audible. She stood at the door just long 
enough to see if there were a third figure in the dis- 
tant carriage, and having seen that there was indeed 
a gentleman sitting beside Madame de Tremonille, 
she rushed into the drawing-room, and throwing 
herself on the sofa, she hid her face against the 
pillow, almost wishing (such is the contrariety of the 


The Interview. 


183 


human heart) that Walter was not so near. She 
could not go to the door to welcome him. No ; not 
for the world. Another moment, and voices were 
heard in the hall — his voice, and calling her name. 
Madame de Tremonille ran down the passage, and 
just opening the door and seeing Beatrice, she beck- 
oned to Walter, and as soon as he entered she 
slipped quickly away — rightly judging that a tete-a- 
tete would be preferred by both. 

On the blessed joy of that meeting we cannot in- 
trude ; it can only be understood by those who have 
been similarly circumstanced. We can only say 
that it was prolonged to so late an hour that Mad- 
ame de Tremonille at last ventured to send Pomio 
to summon them to tea. During the evening, Mr. 
Campbell came in. It had been previously arranged 
between Madame de Tremonille and himself, that 
Walter Grey should stay at the Manse during the 
time previous to the wedding, and Mr. Campbell 
now came to welcome and claim his visitor. Walter 
was exceedingly pleased with the minister’s appear- 
ance, though he at first rebelled a little at being 
separated from Beatrice, even by so short a distance. 
Madame de Tremonille, however, playfully but 
firmly insisted on it, telling him that he might spend 
as much time during the day at Palm Hill as he 
chose, but that at night he must take refuge at the 
Manse. 


184 Greatness in Little Things, 

The following day was Tuesday, and that day 
week was fixed upon for the wedding, which was, of 
course, to be solemnized in the little Scotch church. 
During the few days intervening no event of note 
occurred. We can only say that Beatrice seemed, 
somehow or other, to find very little time for needle- 
work, (but perhaps this was Walter’s fault,) and 
Madame de Tremonille, J eannette and Lucy Moore 
were all hard at work for her. Mary and Caroline 
Gisborne came up on a voyage of inquiry, or rather 
curiosity to see Walter, their ostensible object being 
to visit Beatrice. Beatrice told them that if they 
would like to come to the church on the wedding- 
morning, she should be very happy to see them, but 
that she was going to have no bridesmaids or fuss 
of any kind whatsoever, as it was sp soon after her 
father’s death. 

“ Well, I think that is a very unsatisfactory wed- 
ding,” said Caroline ; “ I shouldn’t think I was 
half married without bridesmaids, and cake, and a 
breakfast, and all that. Why couldn’t you have 
waited a bit, Beatrice, and then done the thing 
properly ? lam sure Mr. Grey seems very comfort- 
able at the Manse, and you will both be running 
away from us when you are married, and it will be 
such a pity to lose you so soon.” 

“Well, you see, Caroline,” said Beatrice, smiling, 
“ Mr. Grey wants to be back in America before 


The Best Friends Part. 185 

long, that he may begin to practice his profession ; 
and I have a little sister too, in New York, who is, 
I know, very anxious to see me.” 

“ Why, you are never going to spend the first 
three weeks of your honeymoon on board ship !” 
said Caroline ; “ how horrible ! I always sufier so 
from sea-sickness. I cannot imagine anything more 
unromantic 1” 

‘‘Well,” said Beatrice, “but I do not sufier so 
very much at sea, so it will not be so bad for me.” 

“ Just fancy, then, next Tuesday being the last 
time we shall see you ; I think you have been very 
shabby not to give us a week more,” said Mary. 

“ Well, so it is,” said Beatrice, smiling ; “ the 
best friends must part, you know, Mary. But I 
dare say I shall often hear of you from Madame de 
Tremonille.” 

“ I know your being here has been a great plea- 
sure to us,” returned Mary ; “ we are so miserably 
ofi* for good society, particularly that of girls of our 
own age.” 

“ I wish I could think,” said Beatrice, gently, 
“that our intercourse had really been of any mutual 
benefit to each other. Perhaps we have not made 
it so profitable as we might have done — I feel as if 
it were so, on my part.” 

“Well, I don’t know,” said Caroline, “I was 
thinking, the other day, that I have thought more 


186 Greatness in Little Things. 

of two or three little things that j^ou have said on 
serious subjects, just in the course of common con- 
versation, than I often have after hearing a sermon. 
I do not know how it is, I feel as if I liked what was 
good, and liked to talk about it, and yet, somehow 
it seems to slip out of my mind so very, very often. 
Sometimes 1 hear a thing that strikes me very forci- 
bly, and makes me think seriously for some time 
after, but the impression seems soon to wear off. I 
cannot tell how it is.” ^ 

“ Dear Caroline,” said Beatiice, earnestly— it is 
because you allow your mind to be so much occu- 
pied with trifles that the things of eternity have but 
a secondary place. Is not this, dear Caroline, like 
what our Saviour said about the seed falling among 
the thorns ? Do strive and make His service your 
first and chief end of life, and live as near to Him as 
possible, and then you will find that you have far 
more than impressions ; religion would then be a 
reality.” v 

“ I will tiy , dear Beatrice,” said Caroline, grave- 
ly — “but I fear I am very unstable.” / 

“ It is from want of prayer and want of real earn- 
estness, I think,” replied Beatrice ; “ suppose now, 
Caroline, you had a piece of needlework to do, the 
finishing of which quickly was of the greatest import- 
ance, do you think any one would believe you were 
earnestly trying to accomplish your task, if you kept 


Friendship Cemented. 187 

laying it aside for every trifling thing which attract- 
ed your attention 

“No! indeed,” said Caroline, musingly — “I think 
I quite understand what you mean. I have been 
very foolish.” 

“ Caroline,” said Mary, who had hitherto sat 
silently listening to the conversation ; “I think you 
and I might be greater helps to each other than we 
are. I believe we both of us wish to do right and 
to live more like Christians, but I think our stupid 
little disputes and frequent petty quarrels often place 
stumbling-blocks in each other’s way. It is a pity 
that sisters, thrown together so much as they must 
be, should not be more gentle and kind, more 
helpful and companionable to each other than they 
often are.” 

“Well! dear Mary, let us try,” said Caroline, 
kissing her. 

Just then Walter entered the room and the girls 
shortly after took their leave, saying that they 
hoped to see Beatrice once more before her marriage 
day. 

The Monday following was a busy day for Bea- 
trice; she had a good deal of packing to do, and 
several friends to say good-by to. Walter came up 
from the Manse several times, but complained that 
he could hardly get a sight of her. It was six o’clock 
in the evening, when all arrangements being com- 
16 


188 Greatness in JvItti.k Things. 

pleted, Beatrice and Madame de Tremonille, accom- 
panied by Walter and Blanche, went to say farewell 
to widow Moore at her little cottage. Beatrice took 
her a nice copy of the Pilgrim’s Progress, in large 
type, for a parting gift, and also two neat lilac print 
gowns for herself and Lucy. The presents were 
received with many expressions of gratitude and 
delight, and the good widow poured forth blessings 
on the head of Walter and Beatrice, begging them 
to let her come to church in the morning to see them 
married. 

The permission was readily granted, and the party 
returned home, sauntering slowly along the road, 
as if willing to enjoy as much as possible their last 
evening amid the beautiful scenery around Palm 
Hill. Madame de Tremonille looked rather sad, 
though she tried to keep up her spirits. She felt 
much at the idea of parting with Beatrice, who had 
become as dear to her as a sister, and the thought 
of her widowed home seemed to press on her mind 
this evening more than usual. When thej^ reached 
the house, they all sat down in the veranda for one 
last chat, and it was quite dark before they moved 
into the drawing-room to tea — and Walter, shortly 
after, took his leave. Madame de Tremonille and 
Beatrice prolonged the conversation to a late hour ; 
there seemed so many last words to say ; and 
Blanche, too, could not be prevailed upon to go to 


Reflections on Marriage. 189 

bed for a long time, — she was so busy packing a little 
box of presents for Hetty, which she had been col- 
lecting ever since she came home from America. 

At last the house was still, and Beatrice’s was the 
only eye that remained unclosed. She stood leaning 
out of her window lost in thought. How many 
anxious feelings fill a young girl’s mind on such an 
occasion; thoughts of the untried sphere that lies 
before them ; thoughts vague and undefined of un- 
known trials and responsibilities yet to come, 
mingled with trustful feelings of love and hope. 
And yet, when there is true love to God in the heart, 
and a sure trust in the chosen one, how all these 
tumultuous feelings and anxieties resolve themselves 
into calm trust and confidence. One feels that 
another self is about to claim our best energies, and 
our dearest hearts’ afiections, and it is no slavery, 
indeed, to give these,but a daily work of love. 

“ Love took Tip tie glass of Time, and turn’d it in his glowing hands. 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands, 

Love took up the Harp of Life and swept upon its chords with 
might, 

Smote the chord of Self, that trembling, passed in music out of 
sight.” — AxrBED Tennyson. 


r-i 





CHAPTER IX; ^ ^ - ^ 

“ Sail forth into the sea of life, . ■ 

O gentle, loving, trusting wife ; 

And safe from all adversity. 

Upon the bosom of that sea, 

‘ ' Thy comings and thy goings be.” — LoNoriiLLOW. 

“ Sweet is the smile of home— the mutual look,— 

When hearts are of each other sure ; 

Sweet all the joys that crowd the household nook— 

The haunt of all affections pure.” — Keble. 

The following morning rose bright and beautiful — 
serene in tropical loveliness. Beatrice was scarcely 
awake when little Blanche came tripping lightly 
into her room, and jumped up on the bed, throwing 
her arms around her neck, and kissing her warmly, 
again and again. “ Look, dear Beatrice,” she ex- 
claimed, holding up some exquisite flowers, ‘‘is not 
this a lovely nosegay? do just smell it! I got up 
as soon as it was light to gather it for you, and I 
arranged it myself, only Jeannette tied the string, 
round, and made the holder. It is for vou when 
you go to church : do carry it in your hand to 

please me.” 

( 190 ) 


The Eve of Marriage. 


191 


“Indeed I will, darling child, with great plea- 
sure,” said Beatrice; “ but what time is it, Blanche?” 

“Why, it is half past six, said Blanche, “and 
Mamma is up.” 

“ And we are to be at the church by eight ? O I 
Blanche, I must get up directly and dress,” said 
Beatrice. 

“ I will run and tell Mamma you are awake — I 
know she wants to come and see you.” 

Beatrice knelt down as soon as she had risen, lest 
she might not get another quiet time for prayer, and 
while she was still on her knees, Madame de Tre- 
raonille softly entered the room. When she had 
finished, they embraced each other without speak- 
ing — both their hearts were full. 

“ My beloved Beatrice,” whispered Madame de 
Tremonille, “God bless you! I feel as if I could 
hardly let you go from me so soon ; and yet it were 
selfish, I know, to wish to detain you — your Walter 
has the best claim now. Only promise me, dear, 
that you will not forget me. Let us keep up a real 
correspondence with each other, and by that I mean, 
let us tell each other our real thoughts and feelings.” 

“ It will be a very, very great pleasure to me to do 
so, dear Isabelle,” said Beatrice ; “ and you know we 
have that blessed hope, the Christian’s hope of meet- 
ing again in that land where ‘parting shall be no 
more.’ Dear little Blanche will be a great comfort 


192 Greatness in Little Things. 

to you — I feel she will. Dear child, she seems to 
grow more sweet and loving every day.” 

“ ‘God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,’ ” dear 
Beatrice, said her friend, sighing as she spoke; “but 
oh ! I cannot tell you what I have felt this morning. 
I passed through the spare-room, a little while ago, 
and there was your white dress lying on the bed 
with your wedding-bonnet, all reminding me, oh ! 
so forcibly, of how it was with me some few happy 
years ago. Oh ! how' handsome and how proud of me 
my own Eugene was then ! and he was so young, so 
noble, and so full of life and vigor, and I fondly 
looked forward to a long life together ; and now — 
oh! my dear lost love!” and Madame de Tremon- 
ille leant her head upon the bed and burst into 
tears. 

“ Dear Isabelle,” said Beatrice, gently, after a few 
minutes’ pause, “do not distress yourself thus. 
You will make me so unhappy if you do. I shall 
think I have been the cause of it. Indeed, in- 
deed, my heart feels for you, and never more than 
now; but have you not already trusted him with 
your Saviour ?” 

“ Oh ! I have, I have,” said Madame de Tremon- 
ille, raising her head ; “it was only a moment’s 
weakness. But come, dear Beatrice, let me dress 
you now ; we will set off early and walk slowly 
down to the church together. I hear Blanche calling 


The Marriage. 193 

Jeannette to come and fasten her dress. She is 
going to wear one of her white dresses, with a light 
blue sash, and a little straw hat. I thought this 
would do nicely for her.” 

Even to the eye of a stranger Beatrice would have 
looked lovely, as she stood in her simple bridal robe 
of white muslin, on her wedding mom. And in the 
eyes of those who loved her, we need not say how 
much this loveliness was enhanced. 

Walter and Mr. Campbell were waiting in the 
church when Beatrice entered, leaning on Madame 
de Tremonille’s arm, followed by little Blanche, 
while a dusky group of servants appeared in the 
distance. A solemn and touching address was 
made to the young couple by the minister, and the 
simple service was soon concluded. When all was 
over, Beatrice looked up and saw Mary and Caroline 
Gisborne standing in a pew near the pulpit, and as 
the wedding-party stood conversing for a few mo- 
ments in the aisle, before leaving the church, the 
two girls came up and joined them. Beatrice was 
leaning on Walter’s arm, and the tears stood in her 
eyes as they kissed her and offered the accustomed 
good wishes. 

‘‘I think you had all better come up to Palm 
Hill and breakfast with us,” said Madame de Tre- 
monille. “Do come, Mr. Campbell— our friends 
will not leave us for an hour or two yet.” 


194 Greatness in Little Things. 

“ How soon do you expect to sail, Mrs. Grey 
asked Mr. Campbell. 

Beatrice started and colored ; it seemed so strange 
to hear herself called by her new name. Walter 
relieved her from answering, saying that they had 
engaged a passage to Hew York on board the brig, 
“ Gipsy Queen,” and that they expected her to sail 
in a few days. 

The party now all moved slowly up the hill to the 
house, and while breakfast was getting ready, Beatrice 
went to change her dress for one suitable for traveling. 
On entering her room, she found, lying on her table, 
a most elegant dressing-case, with a slip of paper 
lying on it, on which was written — “For my dear 
friend, Beatrice Grey, from Isabelle de Tremonille.” 

She opened it — it was completely and perfectly 
fitted up with every requisite for the toilet ; all the 
tops of the bottles, etc., being of richly worked silver 
and the lining of dark -green velvet. Caroline and 
Mary had followed her to her room, and they were 
rapturous in their expressions of admiration. Bea- 
trice turned toward the door ; there stood Madame de 
Tremonille and Blanche. Throwing her arms round 
her friend’s neck, Beatrice thanked her in warm, but 
whispered words. Advancing timidly, Blanche took 
Beatrice’s hand, and holding out a small parcel, she 
said — “ Will you keep this for my sake, dear Bea- 
trice ?” It was a very pretty silver fruit-knife. 


Parting Presents. 195 

Beatrice kissed her, and told her she admired it 
very much, and that she should like it much more 
on account of the giver. Caroline and Mary had 
each brought her a book — Caroline’s was Krum- 
macher’s “ Elijah the Tishbite,” and Mary’s was 
‘‘Tennyson’s Poems.” 

The time for parting seemed to come too quickly 
for all parties, and Beatrice felt as though she were 
leaving old friends, when Madame de Tremonille’s 
carriage bore herself and Walter away from Palm 
Hill. 

The remembrance of all that she passed through 
there, shot through her mind as they drove along 
the road, and she thought of her dear father’s quiet 
grave in the little Scotch church-yard. She and 
Walter had paid a last visit to the spot, the evening 
before, and it now seemed as though it were some- 
thing inexpressibly precious that they were now 
leaving behind, and bitter tears coursed down her 
cheeks as she thought of it. Walter looked at her, 
and seemed to read her thoughts, for he only pressed 
her hand in respectful silence, and said nothing. 

They drove on past the town, up a very pretty 
road till they came to a delightful, countrified-look- 
ing little white cottage, with a neat garden all round 
it, and a porch trimmed with luxuriant creepers. At 
the little garden gate of this pretty place, Cato drew 

up his horses, seeming quite aware where he was to 
17 


196 Greatness in Little Things. 

stop. Beatrice looked at Walter in surprise — 
“ Why ! Walter, where are we exclaimed she. 

“It is all right!” said Walter, smiling, as he 
helped his wife to alight, and led her up the little 
gravel walk to the door— I meant to surprise you, 
dear Beatrice, by bringing you to this pleasant little 
retreat, instead of a dirty, noisy hotel. It was 
through Mr. Campbell’s kindness that I procured 
it; it belongs to a brother clergyman of his, who is 
gone on some business to the other side of the 
island, and he has kindly placed this house at our 
disposal till the ship sails.” 

On entering the door, they were kindly welcomed 
by the minister’s old housekeeper, who had every- 
thing in perfect order for their reception, and dur- 
ing the few days they were at the cottage, she at- 
tended to all their wants with scrupulous care and 
kindness, serving up the most delightfully-cooked 
repasts on snowy-white tablecloths, in a pretty 
china-service of gold and white. Yases full of fresh 
flowers were placed in all parts of the house, and 
yet, while their comfort was studied, they were left 
in perfect liberty. 

Thus the time passed away, till the “ Gipsy 
Queen ” was ready for sailing. They had proceeded 
on their voyage about a week, when one afternoon, 
as Walter and Beatrice were sitting together on 
deck, enjoying the fresh breeze and gazing on the 


Strange Object. 


197 


vast blue expanse of water, which lay rolling and 
heaving around the vessel, the former suddenly 
exclaimed — 

“ O ! look, Bee, do you not see three dark forms, 
like human figures, walking on the water, yonder 
in the far distance? I wonder what they can be I” 

Beatrice turned her eyes in the direction pointed 
out by her husband, and there, indeed, rose against 
the horizon, three dark, straight forms, seemingly 
attached to no foundation. 

“ Do go and ask the captain what he thinks they 
are, love!” said Beatrice, “ he can look through his 
telescope.” 

Walter walked across the deck to where the cap- 
tain was standing talking with the mate of the 
vessel. He had the telescope in his hand, and they 
were both apparently engaged in examining that 
which had attracted his own attention. 

‘‘I’m thinking that that ’ere must be a water- 
logged vessel, sir,” said the captain to Walter, as he 
came up ; “ there have been some very smart gales 
in these parts lately, and 1 guess she ’s some mer- 
chant brig as has sprung a leak in the storm, may-be. 
If so, God help the crew, for we ’re a precious long 
way from land for them to make it in an open boat. 
At anyrate,” said he, turning to the mate; “let’s 
alter our course a little, Mr. Jones, and make toward 
her, mayhap we shall find out where she’s from.” 


198 Greatness in Little Things. 

Walter went back to communicate the news to 
his wife, and together they sat and watched the dis- 
tant object, which they were now rapidly approach- 
ing, as the captain was anxious to reach it before 
dark, and had accordingly ordered all sails to be^ 
set. 

When they had approached sufficiently near, they^ 
perceived that it was, indeed, the remains of some 
shipwrecked and completely water-logged vessel. 
Only the three spars were visible above the surface 
of the water, but from the tallest of these floated 
something like a handkerchief, apparently fastened 
there by the crew, either before they had met their 
death by drowning, or before they had taken to 
the boats to endeavor to make for some distant 
shore. 

At about one hundred yards’ distance from the 
wreck, the captain of the “ Gipsy Queen,” ordered 
that her sails should be furled, and that some of the 
hands should immediately man a boat, and proceed 
toward the ill-fated vessel, to endeavor, if possible 
to discover some tidings of the missing crew. 

When the men returned, they brought with them 
a piece of stiff paper, evidently the cover of an old 
book, which they said, they found nailed to the 
mast, beneath a floating handkerchief. 

In this was written, in blotted and almost illegible 
characters : 


The Wreck. 


199 


“This is the wreck of the “Mary Jane,” brig, 
from Baltimore — sprung a leak in the gale. Crew 
taken to boat, and steered in a north-westerly direc- 
tion. Will any captain of a vessel, finding .this, 
keep a look-out for them !” 

The paper bore date five days before. 

“Why, what has Jim Greenwood got there?” 
asked the captain, as the last of the sailors stepped 
on board, having something lying on his arm. 

“Why it’s a cat, sir,” said the man — “ there she 
was, just inside the round-house, on a shelf, and 
when she heard the splash of the boat’s oars, she 
began mewing and scratching away — so I thought I 
wouldn’t leave the poor creetur to perish — and her 
being the last to abide by the ship too — when all 
the rest had forsaken it.” 

“I expect, Jim,” said the captain, laughing, “ that 
the cat’s stay, was more one of compulsion than 
choice — ” 

“Well, sir, I can’t tell, but I’ll keep her, with 
your leave — somehow, I fancy she wouldn’t desert 
the ship — ” 

“ Well, perhaps,” said the captain, “as the vessel 
is water-logged, and in no danger of sinking below 
her spars, the crew would have done better, to abide 
by her too — at anyrate, Jim, keep the cat — there 
are plenty of rats and mice in the hold, so she ’ll be 
useful, 1 reckon.” 


200 Greatness in Little Things. 

Great was now the excitement felt by all on 
board, as to whether there was any chance of 
overtaking the sufferers. It was evident, that for 
two days, at least, the ship might continue her 
course, at the usual rate of sailing, without expect- 
ing to meet them. After that time, the good-natured 
captain determined on lying-to, every night, and 
hanging out red-lights from the “ Gipsy Queen,” 
lest he should pass by them, in the dark; at the 
same time, occasionally altering his course during 
the day, in the hope of seeing them. 

It was the evening of the fourth day, after the 
wreck had been discovered, that a dark object ap- 
peared, like a speck in the distance ; which proved, 
on a nearer approach, to be indeed a boat, with 
several persons on board. 

How often, during the past three days, had Bea- 
trice come up on deck, and looked anxiously out 
for the poor ship- wrecked sailors ! and now that 
there was really a boat in sight, she and Walter 
participate(f fully, in the excitement of their crew, 
as to the condition of its inmates. 

It was dusk, before the boat and the ship met, 
for though the people in the former, had perceived 
the “Gipsy Queen,” and rowed toward her, she 
evidently contained but few efficient hands, and her 
progress was very slow. 


The Shipwrecked Party. 201 

As they came alongside, Beatrice and her hus- 
band leant over the ship’s side, and watched with 
mingled emotions of pleasure and pain, the emaci- 
ated, and yet thankful countenances of the sufferers, 
as they were assisted on board. 

The party consisted of seven men, a woman, and 
an infant of some six or eight months old. The 
woman lay in a recumbent posture, with her head 
against the gunwale of the boat, apparently insen- 
sible to all that was going on around her. One 
of the sailors held the infant in his rough arms, 
and endeavored to hush its plaintive wailings. 

When the party were all on board, and the poor 
woman had been carried down, and laid in a berth, 
the men explained, that she was the wife of the 
captain of the “Mary Jane;” that her husband, 
had been unfortunately drowned on the day of the 
wreck ; and that the poor creature from grief, from 
want of proper food, and from exposure to the heat 
of the sun in an open boat, had become alarmingly 
ill, with alternate fits of delirium and exhaustion, 
from which even the presence of her babe could 
not arouse her. Beatrice took the infant from the 
sailor and endeavored to hush it to rest; and in- 
deed, the poor child and its sick mother, now 
claimed her whole care and attention. 

The baby was a delicate, weakly-looking boy, 
who lay in her arms moaning, and every now and 


202 Greatness in Littj>k Things. 

then opening its little feverish lips and looking up 
into her face, as if imploring pity. 

Beatrice felt so glad that Walter was able to 
afford medical assistance to the poor mother, whom 
he did not consider in any immediate danger, 
although fever and suffering had rendered her, as 
yet, totally oblivious to all that was going on around 
her. 

Three, four, five weary days did Beatrice spend 
in the sick woman’s cabin, ministering to the wants 
of the poor creature, thus so friendless and alone. 
There was no other female on board, and she could 
not leave her u neared for. 

The poor infant, too, was a great trial and charge, 
for it seemed to pine aw^ay hourly ; and long before 
the mother had recovei*ed her reason, Walter had 
despaired of its life. Occasionally Beatrice would 
go up on deck with her little charge, to see if per- 
chance the fresh sea-breeze might not fan the lamp 
of life that was now fiickering so faintly — but all 
seemed of no aavil. The little eyes waxed dimmer 
and dimmer ; the pulastions of the tiny heart fainter 
and fainter. Beatrice, indeed, felt it a trial — if the 
poor mother could only have returned to conscious- 
ness once more ere her babe’s death ! But it was 
not to be so ; and Beatrice could only look to her 
heavenly Father for help, and trust Him with the 
result. The sight of the poor woman’s sufferings 


Mrs. IIaiuky. 


203 


drew forth her warmest sympathy, and the feeling 
of how much she loved her Walter, deepened her 
pity for poor Mrs. Harvey under her deep loss. It 
grieved her heart to see the poor babe sufiering so 
much, and yet to know that all human aid was of 
no avail ; and yet, after five days and nights passed 
with the infant almost continually in her arms, she 
felt a sorrow as though she had lost something that 
had entwined itself about her heart’s afiections, 
when the freed spirit left its frail little tenement and 
returned to the God who gave it. And when the 
tiny body was committed to the deep that evening, 
there was scarcely a dry eye on board, even among 
the rough sailors. 

It was sad work too, to break to the poor mother 
the intelligence of her second deep loss, on her resto- 
ration to consciousness ; and for some time indeed, 
again her reason seemed to totter on its throne. But 
Beatrice’s tender, sympathetic manner and unwearied 
kindness and attention, did much to restore the poor 
woman to tranquillity. 

Thus the time passed on till they reached New 
York. How many and varied were Beatrice’s feel- 
ings on again beholding her native city. Joy filled 
her heart at the thought of seeing her sister and 
other dear friends ; but her father, and the home of 
her childhood, where were they ? 


204 : Greatness in Jjttle Things. 

The first care of Walter and Beatrice on the ves- 
sel, was to provide for the safety and comfort of poor 
Mrs. Harvey. She said she had a widowed sister to 
whose house she could go, but that she lived at the 
farther end of the city. It did not require many • 
moments for the Greys to decide that they would 
first see the poor widow safe home before they should 
seek their own friends — for was she not friendless 
and alone, and cast, as it were, on their protecting 
kindness ? 

They found the sister a gentle, afifectionate, warm- 
hearted woman, who received Mrs. Harvey with 
tears of mingled joy and sympathy — but she had 
five young children depending upon her for support, 
and although poor Mrs. Harvey might probably, in 
time, be able to earn something toward their mutual 
support, yet it was easy to perceive that, with such 
slender means, any additional burden would be felt. 

Beatrice felt that she had the means of assistance, 
and could she withhold her hand in a case where 
the grief and poverty of others seemed so plainly to 
call for help and protection ? 

With her husband’s consent she therefore earn- 
estly begged poor Mrs. Harvey to accept of a 
small annuity from her, urging it for the sake 
of the little one whom she had nursed in his last 
hours. 


The Welcome. 


205 


The poor widow thanked her with tears of joy 
and gratitude, while Beatrice felt grateful to her 
heavenly Father for thus having afforded her the 
means of comforting the heart of the mourner. 

It was with a beating heart that Beatrice took 
hold of her husband’s arm, as he helped her to alight 
at the door of his father’s house. They had not 
time to ring the bell before they heard an exclama- 
tion of joy from an open window above, and Hetty 
rushed down stairs and was in Beatrice’s arms in an 
instant. Old Mr. and Mrs. Grey followed her, and 
welcomed their son and daughter-in-law with tears 
of joy and warm words of welcome. Aunt Louisa 
too came out into the hall, and seemed really glad 
to see them. O! how pleasant is the feeling of 
being welcomed, with gushing affection, by those 
we love. O ! the blessing of a hearty, thorough, 
sincere welcome. 

Hetty seemed, perhaps, the most overjoyed of any 
of the party. She kept fast hold of her sister’s 
hand, while the tears stood full in her dark eyes, 
and her cheeks burned a rosy red, and she kept 
ever}^ now and then looking up in Beatrice’s face, 
as though to assure herself of the reality of her. 
presence. 

Their joy was in some measure chastened by sor- 
row, in thinking of him who had gone from them 
and had returned no more to partake in this glad 


206 Greatness in Liitle Things. 

welcoming ; and the mourning dresses of all served 
as a reminder of their grief, for both Mr. and Mrs. 
Grey had wished to show this testimony of respect 
to the memory of so much esteemed and valued a 
friend. 

O ! how much there was to tell on both sides — 
how much news to communicate ! 

Beatrice was thought to be looking remarkably 
well, and very little altered by her residence in the 
West Indies. 

“We expected to see you come back a sort of 
mulatto color, dear Beatrice,” said Hetty laughing ; 
“ and you look as rosy, at this moment, as if you 
had never left home.” 

Beatrice smiled ; “O! Hetty,” she said, “you do 
not know how many beautiful places I have seen. 
I have often wished you could have been with me 
to enjoy them. But I must show you all my West 
India curiosities and sketches some time when I 
have time to unpack them ; and there is a little 
box too, for you, from Blanche.” 

“ O 1 how is dear Blanche ?” said Hett}’^ ; “ I was 
so glad to see you I had not had time to ask after 
Tier.” 

“O! she is such a sweet child,” said Beatrice; 
“ she was always a dear little thing, but she is very 
much improved lately, and is so gentle in her man- 
ners, and yet so lively and warm-hearted, that I 


The Kecital. 207 

was quite grieved to part with her, and to her 
adopted mother she is a treasure indeed.” 

“ Madame de Tremonille is one of the most de- 
lightful, cultivated, and charming women I have 
ever met,” said Walter. “She won my heart by her 
kindness and love to dear Bee ; she seemed as if she 
could never do enough for her.” 

“ Well, I do not know that that was so very ex- 
traordinary after all,” said old Mr. Grey, smiling, 
and tapping his daughter-in-law on the shoulder; 
“ she seems, somehow or other, to have twined her- 
self round all our hearts ; and as for this little gipsy,” 
said he, catching Hetty by the arm and pulling her 
toward him, “I have adopted her as my second 
daughter !” 

“ Well, dear Beatrice,” said his wife, “ I should 
advise you to come up stairs now, and take off your 
bonnet and shawl. You will be glad to rest a little 
while before tea — shall you not, my dear ?” 

Beatrice readily consented, and followed Mrs. 
Grey up-stairs, holding Hetty by the hand. 

There was abundant food for conversation that 
evening, and time flew rapidly away till nine o’clock 
struck, and old Socrates came with a lantern from 
Curzon street to take Mrs. Grant and Hetty home. 

“ O ! come in, Socrates,” said Beatrice, when she 
saw his black face, with its venerable-looking white 
hair, peeping in at the door. 


208 Greatness in Little Things. 

“ Me berry, berry glad to see yon, Missy Betiss,” 
said the old man, advancing into the room, with his 
hat in his hand, “ you look more sweeter and purtier 
dan when you left home. I glad to see Massa 
Walter, your husband — he good Christian man; 
God bless you boff, is my prayer.” 

“Thank you, Socrates, I am sure,” said Beatrice; 
“ but how have you been since I left home ?” 

“Well, purty well. Missy, for old man like me; 
but since I hear my old massa gone, I feel some- 
times it time for Socrates to go too. I shall go and 
seek my massa soon. Missy. I am much older nor 
he was when de Lord took him, but while I live on 
dis earth I must lib wid you. Missy Betiss, and 
serve you.” 

* “ Well, Socrates, we must manage that if we can,” 

said Beatrice ; “but you might be thinking of leav- 
ing off work now.” 

O ! no. Missy ; I never like to be idle while de 
Lord gives me strength to work. Please, Missis, 
are you ready ?” said he, turning to Mrs. Grant. 

Hetty cast a sorrowful look at Beatrice, at the 
thought of parting with her; but Beatrice whispered 
in her ear that she was to live at Mill Town with 
Walter and herself, and that then she hoped they 
should see plenty of each other. A gleam of joy 
shot across Hetty’s face, at this glad intelligence, 
and her cheeks colored with pleasure. Yague fears 


The Will. 


209 


of being left at school in New York, or of continu- 
ing to live in Curzon street with Aunt Louisa, had 
often troubled her mind, and Beatrice’s words made 
the poor child go home and lie down on her pillow, 
that night, with a happy and light heart. 

After Mrs. Grant and Hetty had left, the rest of 
the party continued for some time engaged in con- 
versation. There seemed so much to say, that they 
were unwilling to separate. 

“ Beatrice, my dear,” said Mr. Grey, “ before you 
left this country, your dear father placed in my 
hands a copy of his will, which he had had drawn 
up a short time before. I have not opened it yet, 
waiting for your return to do so ; if you think 
proper, I will read it to-morrow morning, when you 
are all assembled together.” 

“ Certainly,” said Beatrice, “ whatever you think 
best. Dear Papa mentioned something to me, re- 
specting the manner in which he had disposed of 
what he possessed. Though this is not much, yet, 
what we have will be a help to dear Walter, now 
he is not yet settled.” 

“How soon do you think of going down to 
Mill Town, my dear son?” said old Mrs. Grey. 

“Well, mother, as soon as possible,” said 
Walter; “you see, there is a good opening for me 
now, and our friends there seem to wish me to 
come at once, before a rival appears in the field. 


no Greatness in Little Things. 

There is only one old doctor in the place, and he is 
quite of the old school, and almost superannuated. 

I shall be ready to go down as soon as ever Bea- 
trice is — ” 

“ O ! I have nothing to keep me beyond a few 
days,” said his wife, “ I should like to see a few old 
friends and acquaintances, before we go ; and as 
Hetty is to come with us, she will want a little time 
to get ready.” 

“O! no — come,” said old Mr. Grey, “I intend 
Hetty to live with us ; she has been here every day 
lately, and I should so miss her bright, merry face; 
you really must leave her behind you, Beatrice — ” 

“ I made a solemn promise to dear Papa, on his 
death-bed,” said Beatrice, “ that I would take her to 
live with us, and be a mother to her, as far as lay 
in my power. So please, let her come with us now, 
that she may get to consider our house as her home, 
and then, you know, dear Mr. Grey, she can come 
and visit you as often as you like — the distance 
from here to Mill Town, is not so very great — ” 

“ Well, I see, 1 must yield the point,” said the old 
gentleman, sighing — ‘‘but what is your aunt to do?” 

“ Dear Papa told me, he had left her enough to 
support her comfortably,” replied Beatrice. 

“I should think, aunt would probably go into 
one of the boarding-houses of the city. I think 
such a life would suit her.” 


CoMMENi's ON Character. 


211 


“ By-the-by, Beatrice,” said Mr. Grey, “your old 
admirer, Mr. Chichester, is married; he .did not 
seem to take your rejection of him so very much 
to heart.” 

“ I don’t think Chichester is the kind of man ever 
to take anything much to heart,” said Walter ; 
“ his predilections were of a very evanescent nature: 
he was always fancying himself in love with some 
oi!e or other, and if matters did not run smoothl}^ 
why then, with the utmost nonchalance, he could 
attach himself to some one else. I don’t call that 
sort of thing true love: it is not worthy of the 
name — ” 

“ Whom has he maried ?” said Beatrice. 

“Why, who of all others, but Alice Yaughan,” 
replied Mrs. Grey. “ He has about got his 
match. She was just the kind of girl to marry for 
an establishment, for the sake indeed, of being 
married ; and so perhaps she would feel less, than 
many others, the loss of any particular devotion 
toward her, on her husband’s part. So long as he is 
outwardly attentive to her, and gives her what 
dresses and ornaments she wants, 1 don’t suppose, 
she will care for much beside. Perhaps she might 
not have appreciated true love — so it will be the 
better for her, poor girl 1” 

“It often astonishes me,” said Walter, smiling, 
“ how people find each other out, as partners for life : 

18 


212 Greatness in Little Things. 

some seem so exactly suited to each other, that 
they appear to have been cut out and moulded for 
no one else.” 

“Well, that is true,” said his mother; “but yet 
we often see very happy marriages, where the 
husband and wife differ entirely and essentially, both 
in character and disposition ; 1 was going to say, in 
tastes also, but of course, there must be some har- 
mony there, for them to be companions for each otlicr 
at all. But I have often noticed a strongly- marked 
characteristic on one side, counterbalanced by a defi- 
ciency in that point on the other — that where there 
is the greatest weakness in the one disposition, the 
greatest strength will often lie in the other — and 
that thus the two characters seem to dove-tail into, 
and balance each other, and'' so produce harmony 
and happiness.” 

“ If you have all finished this discussion on 
matrimony,” said old Mr. Grey, “I think we had 
better be thinking of going to bed, for our travelers 
must be tired.” 

Just as the party had all assembled for breakfast, 
the following morning, Hetty came running into 
the room, her face beaming with joy — and running 
up to Beatrice quite “sans ceremonie,” she kissed 
her heartily, and then turning to Mrs. Grey, she 
said : 


Hetty. 


213 


“Forgive me, dear Mrs. Grey, for coming so early ; 
I have been awake ever since it was light, longing 
for the time to come when I might run over.” 

“ Pray don’t apologize, dear child, we are always 
glad to see you.” 

“ Aunt Louisa sends her love, and says she will 
be here after breakfast,” said Hetty ; “ but she was 
only just up, when I started, so she will not be here 
just yet.” 

“ Come to breakfast, dear children,” said Mrs. 
Grey, who was pouring out the coffee; “it will all 
get cold while you are standing there — and you can 
talk and discuss your eggs and toast at the same 
time.” 

“Well, at least we can look at each other,” said 
Hetty, laughing, and skipping up to the breakfast 
table. “Now doesn’t it look delightful, dear Mrs. 
Grey, to see those two dear faces here again? — it 
seems almost like a dream to me — I have longed 
to see Beatrice for such a dreadful time.” 

“ Why you have not been so very, very dull and 
melancholy, I hope, dear Hetty,” said her sister. 

“ Why, perhaps not exactly so bad as that,” she 
replied ; “ but Aunt Louisa kept me always in such 
prim propriety, I felt as if I could hardly breathe 
freely when I was with her — she used always to be 
telling me to sit straight, or to turn out my toes, or 
some fidgety thing or other. If she asked me to 


214 Greatness in J^irri-E Things. 

read aloud, it was always either too fast or too slow, 
or too loud or too low. I seemed always to be in a 
bother as to whether I was doing right or not, and 
that made me ten times worse. She is so old- 
maidish and fudgy, one can’t fancy she was ever 
married.” 

“Gome, come, Hetty,” said Beatrice, gravely, 
“you must not speak so harshly of Aunt Louisa; 
it is not right. She meant kindness toward you, 
when correcting you, only perhaps her manner of 
doing it was not pleasant.” 

“ Kindness !” said Hetty, warmly ; “ well I thought 
it down-right teasing. I certainly never took it for 
kindness — I never was so plagued in my life.” 

“Perhaps you were not attentive enough, in trying 
to remember the little faults she told you of, Hetty, 
and that made matters worse.” 

“Well, perhaps not,” said Hetty, slowly and 
thoughtfully; “ and yet. Bee, when I did try, it did 
not seem to be much better.” 

“ I think great allowances should be made for 
3^our aunt,” said old Mr. Grey ; “she has had many 
trials and disappointments in life, and you should 
bear with her as gently as you can. I believe she 
is really and truly fond of you both at heart.” 

“Well, perhaps she may be after all,” said Hetty. 
“I know that when I had that attack of influenza, 
Mrs. Grey, I thought Aunt Louisa seemed very care- 


Charity. 


216 


lul of me ; she used to come and see me many times 
in the day, and bring me nice little things she had 
made for me with her own hand. Though she never 
said much, I thought she seemed to feel for me.” 

“ Well, dearest,” said Beatrice, “ always try and 
judge as charitably of every one as you can. You 
cannot expect to find everybody equally pleasant add 
agreeable in their manners ; but allowances should 
be made for all, and we should never try to find out 
what a person’s faults are, but think all the good of 
them we possibly can,” 

“Walter, I have been thinking, this morning,” 
said his father, “ that it would be a good plan for 
you to take the steamboat and go down to Hartford, 
and then go on to Mill Town and look out for a house, 
and get it in some tolerable order before your wife 
and Hetty go. You see, your mother’s relations 
in the place are strangers to Beatrice — almost, I 
may say, to ourselves — and it w^ould be much more 
pleasant for her to have* a home to go to at once.” 

‘‘It would, indeed, father,” said Walter. “What 
do you say to that plan, dear Bee ? I do not know 
that I should like to choose a house without consult- 
ing you.” 

“Well, I will trust to your taste, Walter,” said 
his wife, smiling; “but indeed I fancy you will 
have little choice. From your description of it. Mill 
Town appears to be a very small place, and I 


216 Greatness in Little Things. 

suppose, we shall have to put up with what we 
can get.” 

“I think you had better choose what furniture 
you want here, Walter, before you go,” said his 
mother, “and then take it down with you on the 
boat; you can get it so much better and cheaper 
here, and then Beatrice and you can please your 
own taste.” 

“ Yes, mother, that will be a capital plan,” said 
Walter. “When could you go out with me. Bee? 
I should be glad to start for Mill Town in a day or 
two.” 

“Well, then, suppose we go this morning,” said 
Beatrice ; “ we are more likely to have callers in 
the afternoon, and I suppose, I ought to be at home 
to receive them for the next da}^ or two.” 

“Do let me go out shopping with you, dear 
Beatrice,” said Hetty, “I have very good taste, 
you know,” she continued, laughing ; “ I should 
choose' such charmingly pretty things, if it were left 
to me !” 

“ Left to you, indeed, Hetty,” said her brother-in- 
law, laughing too ; “I am afraid there would be 
some queer things sent down to Mill Town if we 
trusted to your selection. But come, at any rate, and 
give us your opinion.” 

“Indeed, Master Walter, you are very polite,” 
said Hetty, tossing back her dark curls; “perhaps 


Irish Constancy. 217 

if my opinion is so little valued, I shall not dei^m 
to give it.” 

‘‘Come, come,” said Beatrice, “don’t be quarrel- 
ing, you naughty creatures ; come with me up- 
stairs, Hetty, I want to give you Blanche’s little box 
now ; poor dear child, the making up of that parcel 
was the result of a great deal of toil and labor on 
her part. She began to collect things for you almost 
as soon as we arrived at Palm Hill.” 

“O! yes,” said Hetty, “but wait two or three 
minutes, dear Bee, till I have finished breakfast. I 
have been talking so much I have forgotten to eat.” 

“ I forgot to ask you, Hetty, if you had heard 
anything lately of Pat Ryan and his wife ?” said 
Beatrice. 

“O ! yes,” said Hetty, “I have been to see them 
several times — at least I have seen Biddy and the 
children. Pat I only saw once, after you left, just 
the day before he sailed. Poor fellow, he seemed to 
feel parting from his wife and children so much. I 
did not see him at the time, but Biddy told me that 
‘he cried bitterly, sure enough.’ I like Pat, he 
seems such a warm-hearted fellow.” 

“ When an Irishman is a good husband at all, he 
is geiferally a very good husband,” said old Mr. 
Grey, who had been sitting quietly reading by the 
fire; “they are a very affectionate, warm-hearted 
race of people.” 


218 Greatness in Little Things. 

‘‘ I remember a friend of mine, who was an eye- 
witness of the fact, telling me a very pretty story 
about an Irishman’s love for his wife,’’ said Walter ; 
“ I will tell it you while Hetty finishes her break- 
fast. It happened a short time ago, when some 
troops were being shipped from the jetty at Kings- 
ton, near Dublin, for some foreign station. This 
poor man was in one of these regiments, which had 
been ordered abroad, and his heart was very sore at 
the idea of parting with his wife, to whom he had 
been lately married, who was not to be allowed to 
go with him. There are only fourteen soldiers in 
every company wjio are allowed to be married, ac- 
cording to English military law, and it appears that 
Pat and his wife had not obtained this military per- 
mission to be married — being over the prescribed 
number — yet, nevertheless, married they were. 
This regulation may be a necessary one, as far as 
government expenses are concerned, but certainly it 
is a very cruel and wrong one as regards the men 
themselves. So when the time came for embarking, 
poor Aileen was told that she could not, by any pos- 
sibility, be allowed to follow her husband ; and it 
was with a heart almost bursting with grief that she 
waved farewell to him from the quay, while Pat 
stood on the deck looking at her in a terrible state 
of mind. The wife, my friend told me, was a fine, 
handsome-looking girl, and every one seemed to feel 


Irish Constancy. 


219 


for and pity the young couple, hut it was of no use ; 
military law knows no mercy. The anchor was 
heaved, and the ship swung round, and most of the 
officers of the regiment had retired below into the 
cabin. The poop-deck was already eight or ten feet 
from the edge of the quay, when, with a groan of 
agony and resolution, Pat made a tremendous leap 
from the deck to the shore, and rushing to his wife, he 
caught her in his arms, and with an almost superhu- 
man efi(3rt he leaped on to the deck again with the 
treasure he could not bear to part from, and which he 
had thus risked his life to obtain. A shout of admira- 
tion rose from the bystanders, and this, together with 
the crash of the heavyweight on the poop, brought up 
the officers ; and on the circumstances being told 
them, Pat was allowed, to his great joy, to take his 
Aileen aboard with him, with full military privileges.” 

‘‘That is a very pretty story, Walter,” said Hetty; 
“ but I wonder he could possibly leap that distance 
with his wife in his arms.” 

“Why you see,” said Walter, “I suppose the 
deck was probably a good bit lower than the quay, 
so that the return jump was the easiest ; but it is 
astonishing what strong love and powerful will can 
do. I have myself seen people perform feats of 
strength, under the influence of some great excite- 
ment, which I know they could not possibly have 

done in a cooler moment.” 

10 


220 Greatness in Little Things. 

“It is just in the same way,” said Mr Grey, 
“ that a person can walk three times the distance, 
when eagerly engaged in pursuit of any object, that 
he could if just taking a quiet, aimless ramble ; the 
mind appears to endue the body with wonderful 
energy.” 

“ I am sure,” said Mrs. Grey, “ 1 have often felt, 
when my children were little, that if any of them 
were ill, I could lose my rest for nights together sit- 
ting up with them ; and at another time, when I 
had nothing to interest me, if I only missed a few 
hours’ sleep I should feel greatly wearied.” 

“Well! I think Mrs. Grant will be here directly,” 
said Mr. Grey, rising from the breakfast table as 
he spoke — “suppose we adjourn to the study before 
you go out shopping; I should like to get that 
little business over of which we were speaking last 
night, Beatrice.” 

“ Certainly, if you wish it, I am ready,” said she, 
sighing; and taking Walter’s arm, she crossed the hall 
into the little study, followed by the rest of the party. 

Just at that moment Mrs. Grant came in, and the 
will was read to them all. It was found to be just 
as Mr. Evelyn had told Beatrice. To his sister 
Louisa he had left a comfortable maintenance for the 
term of her natural life, and after her death, it was 
to revert to his two daughters. The rest of the pro- 
l>erty, with the exception of trifling legacies to 


The Will Opened. 


221 


Socrates and one or two old servants and depend- 
ents, was to be divided equally between Beatrice and 
Hetty ; that of the latter remaining under her sister’s 
control till she should come of age or marry. To 
Walter Grey were left President and the phaeton, and 
such books and silver plate as had been saved from 
the fire. 

Mrs. Grant, though she seemed to feel her bro- 
ther’s kindness in thus providing for her, appeared 
out of spirits. Hetty had told her that she was to go 
to Mill Town to live with her sister, and to say the 
truth, she did not much like the idea of being left 
alone in New York. Beatrice read her feelings and 
begged her aunt to come down and pay them a visit 
as soon as they should be settled. She felt it wrong 
to exhibit any want of cordiality toward her aunt, 
for though she was not, perhaps, particularly plea- 
sant as a visitor, Beatrice felt it her duty to show 
her the respect and attention due by a niece. The 
rest of the morning was spent in selecting furniture, 
crockery, etc. Carpets and curtains could not, of 
course, be bought till the house was decided upon, 
and when Walter should come back for his wife 
and Hetty, he was to bring all necessary particulars 
as to dimensions, that they might be able to take 
down with them whatever was required. 

It was agreed that Walter should start, the follow- 
ing morning, in search of their new home ; it was, 


222 Greatness in Little Things. 

indeed, an important epoch in their lives, and they 
both felt it to be so. The untried future lay before 
them ; Walter’s career as a physician was not yet 
begun, and Beatrice was to be surrounded by new 
faces and strange scenes, and fresh responsibilities. 
They had not even yet a dwelling-place selected, but 
they both felt that they could leave all trustfully in 
the hands of their heavenly Father — that the world 
was not to be their home, but only a pilgrim state, 
and that Mill Town was, as it were, but an inn by 
the way-side. 

“ Where a sunlit isle, so greenly bright, 

Lay circled in ocean’s arm — 

Where the tall palms -waved in dancing light. 

And the breeze blew soft and warm — 

He sought himself a home. 

Where the gorgeous town, its domes of gold 
And turrets bright, upreared — 

Where the hum of multitudes untold. 

Like murmuring seas, was heard — ' ' 

He sought himself a home. 

Where the hills, with rolling clouds between. 

Rose o’er hanging, gentle vales. 

Which, bathed in a glow of sunlit green. 

Lay shelter’d from wint’ry gales — 

He sought himself a home. 

But ever and aye with wearied mind. 

He restlessly long’d for change — 

Oh ! where might the wanderer shelter find ? 

Oh ! where — through the wide earth’s range — 

Where should he find a home ? 


1Ip:aven Our Home. 


223 


As he lay, one moru,.ou his pallet bed, 

He watch’d a lark uprise, 

And straight resolv’d, ‘ I ’ll bead my way, 

The road the songster flies — 

There will I find a home !’ 

He watch’d its flight with anxious gaze, 

When soaring straight on high, 

It turn’d aside to right nor left, 

But carolled in the sky — 

How might this be his home ? 

It seem’d to him that that sweet bird, 

Said, ‘ Seek not rest below — 

Turn not thy thoughts to earth again — 

Sad scene of grief and woe — 

In Heaven must be thy home 1’” — E. V. 


■ V -0^ 


CHAPTEE X. 


‘‘ It is beautiful, it is glorious, to serve what one loves. * * It may 
be by giving one’s heart’s blood, or quite simply in making tea. It 
is all the same — it only depends upon time and opportunity.” 

Feederika Bremer. 

“ Mon ami, le public a bon nez, et ne se meprend guere.” 

Madame de Sevigne. 

It was not very long before Beatrice and Walter 
- were settled in their new home at Mill Town. A 
house had been procured by Walter with but little 
difficulty, and he had then returned to bring his wife, 
Hetty, Socrates, and two servant girls, from New 
York. The new home was quite a country place, 
just outside the town, and it had delightful fields 
and trees, and a well-stocked orchard surroundins it. 
The trees were just in the full freshness of spring, 
and the blossoms filled the air with their sweet per- 
fume. Along one side of the house lay a long strip 
of lawn, separated from the orchard by a low fence. 
This was prettily laid out in flower-beds, and many 
gay flowerets were already shining brightly there. 

On the other side of the house rose 'a sunny green 
( 254 ) 


Mr. Mei.villk. 


^J5 

slope, with a small wo d crowning the summit, and 
at the foot of this, on the other side, ran a sparkling 
little brook, forming the boundary of the place in 
that direction. Beatrice was very much pleased 
witli it — all things looked so countrified and fresh, 
and it was quite conveniently situated for Walter, too. 
The phaeton had been disposed of in New York — 
exchanged for a doctor’s buggy — though President 
was, of course, too old a favorite to be parted with ; 
and it was not long before Walter might be seen 
driving about in various directions, actively engaged 
in his new’ vocation. Mill Town, though as yet but 
small and scattered, was tolerably populous, and 
old Mrs. Grey’s relations being some of the oldest 
residents, it w^as easy for him to gain introductions. 
Walter had a particularly kind and gentle manner, 
too ; and this, together with his really by-no-means- 
to-be-despised professional skill, soon procured him 
abundant employment. 

Beatrice had scarcely arranged her new’ house in 
anything like tolerable order, when their Mill Town 
relations came to call upon them. Beatrice was 
standing in the sitting-room with Hetty, busily en- 
gaged in putting up muslin window-curtains, when 
the door-bell rang, and Socrates ushered in the 
[)arty. By good fortune Walter w^as at home, and 
came in to help his wife to entertain their visitors. 
Mr. Melville, the head of the family, was a rather 


226 Greatness in Little Things. 

stout, yet handsome old gentleman, of ahout sixty, 
with a shining bald head, and dreamy-looking gray 
eyes, by no means devoid of intellectual expression. 
He had a large and flourishing farm, the boundaries 
of which extended almost to the confines of the 
Greys’ little home. This farm had been in the 
family for four generations, and was at present 
admirably managed by the old steward, Mr. Brian 
O’Keilly, which was, indeed, a most fortunate thing 
for Mr. Melville, who was rather of a philosophic 
and literary turn of mind than given to agricultural 
pursuits. He was a kind-hearted gentleman, not 
foolish or weak, but rather w^anting, perhaps, in the 
ability to command and manage. This deficiency 
was, however, made up for by his wife, wdio was a 
tal], fresh, agile woman, who seemed always on the 
alert — always on springs — always planning, “fixing,” 
or arranging something. Full of kindly feeling, yet 
warm and impetuous, she ruled her husband and 
children with alternate love and severity. Her only 
daughter, Laura, was a sprightly brunette, good- 
looking certainly, but with something a shade too 
quizzing and cynical in her expression and manner 
to win love easily from strangers. Although by no 
means an uninformed girl, she allowed herself to be 
the slave of gossip; and from thus interesting her- 
self about trifles, she warped her mind from its native 
superiority. Not a circumstance that had occurred 


Mr. Melville’s Family. 


22T 


in a neighbor’s house was unknown to Laura — not 
a piece of intelligence did she hear but it would fly 
like wild-fire over the parish. It would have been 
really next to an impossibility for Laura to keep a 
secret. She itched to tell a piece of news directly 
she heard it ; and she really persuaded herself that 
the sly hints she threw out, telling the news by im- 
plication, were not at all breaches of the confidence 
which had been reposed in her by those intrusting 
her with the secret. Like all persons of this class 
of character, she w^as given to remarking, sometimes 
not too charitably, upon the persons, manners, and 
household arrangements of all her acquaintances. 
All this, as Beatrice afterward discovered, had be- 
come almost a habit with poor Laura, who had 
really a fund of good nature and kindly feeling in 
her disposition. But her mother had, from child- 
hood, encouraged her in making satirical remarks, 
and lafughed at her lively repartees and quaint 
sallies. 

There were two sons in the family — the eldest, 
William, was a lawyer in New York. The second, 
Claude, was a handsome, intelligent fellow, of some 
nineteen or twenty years. He was the spoiled child 
of the family, and his mother’s especial pet and pride. 
A wild and wayward nature was that of Claude, and 
it w^as found next to impossible to induce him to 
apply himself steadily to any one profession ; but he 


228 


CiRKATNKSS IN 1>ITTLK TfIINGS. 

was allowed pretty much the scope of his own free- 
will — his mother never doubting but that her darling 
son would be sure to distinguish himself some day 
or other; and his father, unfortunately, in his gen- 
tle, easy way, troubling himself very little about the 
matter. But more of Claude Melville hereafter — for 
we must not forget that, while we are thus introducing 
him to our readers, we have left his parents and sis- 
ter standing in Beatrice Grey’s drawing-room, mak- 
ing their first acquaintance with their new relation. 

Beatrice had a lively and pleasant manner in com- 
pany, which soon made both her visitors and herself 
at their ease. She particularly liked old Mr. Mel- 
ville — he seemed so gentle and fatherly, and showed 
so much quiet good sense in his remarks. His wife, 
too, seemed inclined to be veiy friendly and agreeable, 
and promised to assist Beatrice in aii}^ way she could, 
whether in domestic matters, or in making acquaint- 
ances among the neighbors. While Walt^er and 
Beatrice entertained Mr. and Mrs. Melville, Laura 
was busily chatting with Hetty, and they finally left 
the room together, at Laura’s request, to reconnoiter 
the rest of the house and the garden. After having 
duly surveyed everything, the two girls continued 
for some time walking up and down on the lawn, 
and Laura said to her companion : — 

1 know this place very well by sight. A lady 
named Parkinson lived here for many years, but 


Mrs. Parkinson. 


229 


she was such a very reserved person that we scarcely 
saw anything of her. Poor thing! I remember 
sometimes, when I was passing by on the road out- 
side, I used to see her walking up and down here in 
the garden in a black dress, with a book in her 
hand, reading — and she looked so tall, and thin, 
and care-worn, I pitied her — but I never liked to go 
in and seek to comfort her in any way, for she 
always seemed to shun society.’’ 

“What made her so unhappy?” said Hetty. 

“ Why, we heard something of her story from an 
old housekeeper of hers,” replied Laura: “Mrs. 
Parkinson was a widow, with an only son — a bad, 
vicious-looking man, of dreadfully intemperate ha- 
bits, who used to annoy her a great deal, and cause 
her much trouble of mind. He used to live mostly 
in Hew York, and when he got short of money, 
he would come down here and wheedle his poor 
mother out of nearly all she possessed, and then go 
back and spend it in drinking and gambling, and all 
sorts of wickedness. 

“Well, to make matters worse, this wretched man 
was married, some years ago, to a poor, unhappy, 
gentle girl, (his second cousin, I believe,) who little 
knew his character when she accepted him; and 
after passing two miserable years with him, she 
died, poor thing, leaving one little boy, a pretty, 
delicate-looking little fellow. 


230 Greatness in Little Things. 

“I remember Mamma and I met Robert Parkinson 
and his little son, one day, standing just outside the 
gate. What a contrast it was — the bloated, red- 
faced man, and the pretty blue-eyed child : it re- 
minded me of an angel and a fiend. 

“Whenever Robert Parkinson came her^ to see his 
mother, he always brought the child with him, and 
the old lady wanted him to let her have charge 
of little Francis altogether, and thus keep him away 
from the city and the dreadful places his father fre- 
quented. But it was of no use, he would not part 
with the child ; indeed his affection for him seemed 
about the last lingering spark of goodness in his 
character. 

“ Well, old Mrs. Norris told us, that one day last 
summer, Mr. Parkinson came down here from New 
York, in a dreadful state — scarcely sober — and that 
there was, as usual, a scene of recriminations, en- 
treaties, and angry words between him and his poor 
mother ; and when he went away the old lady seemed 
very low and miserable, and cried very much, tell- 
ing Mrs. Norris that her son would break her heart. 
Whether this was really the case, I cannot tell ; but 
a few evenings after, she was found sitting under 
that large tree yonder, near the orchard, with her 
Bible in her hand, quite dead. She is buried in the 
church-yard at Mill Town, and the house has re- 
mained untenanted till now, as the poor people about 


Lauka and IIkity. 


231 


here believe tliat her ghost haunts the garden, gliding 
slowly up and down with a book in its hand.” 

“Poor! poor lady!” said Ilett}^, sighing — “I 
can ’t say I am afraid of the ghost myself, but I shall 
never see that old tree without thinking of her sad 
end.” 

“ I wonder what has become of that poor little 
Francis,” said Laura, “ it does seem so wretched for 
a child to be left among such people as his father’s 
associates.” 

“It does, indeed,” said Hetty. 

“ Who is that old black man, working in the gar- 
den ?” asked Laura. 

“ O ! that is old Socrates, and a good old man 
he is — he has been a servant in our family ever 
since Beatrice was quite a little girl, and now he has 
become so much attached to us all, that he would 
not hear of leaving us when dear Papa died, so 
Walter and Beatrice have brought him down here.” 

“ Don’t you think you shall find it horribly dull 
in this place ?” said Laura. 

“O ! no,” said Hetty ; “ why I can’t fancy how it 
could be dull. There are so many, many things to 
be done in the country — particularly where there is 
such a nice garden as we have — and then, you 
know, there are books, and music, and work. Be- 
side, I never could be dull with Beatrice ; and if all ’s 
well, I am to go, in the autumn, to stay with Wal- 


232 Greatness in Little Things. 

ters father and mother, and liave lessons from dif- 
ferent masters ; and 1 ought to study hard during the 
summer months, to prepare for them — so you see, I 
am not likely to feel it dull.” 

“ Well !” said Laura, ‘‘ I have books and music, 
and all that sort of thing, but I find the place terri- 
bly monotonous. I go out and chat with neighbors 
and pick up what little news I can, or I don’t know 
how I should get on.” 

Hetty looked at her in some surprise, and then 
said : “ Well, I don’t see what interest there can be 
in other people’s affairs ; unless they are persons we 
know very well, I shouldn’t care to hear about 
them.” 

“ Well ! you ’re a queer girl,” said Laura, laugh- 
ing — “ but come, I think mamma and papa will be 
waiting for me ; let us go into the house.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Melville and Laura soon took 
leave, begging the Greys and Hetty to come over to 
Springfield and see them, as soon as they could. 

“Well! these are pleasant people, my dear,” 
said Mr. Melville to his wife, as they walked down 
the road toward their house ; “ I think Mrs. Grey is 
a remarkably sweet young woman.” 

“ Well 1 I ’ve no fault to find with her,” replied 
she, “but I’m afraid our new doctor is rather 
young-looking — why, he cannot certainly be more 
than twenty-five.” 


Beatrice and Hetty. 


233 


‘‘ Well ! Mamma, he looks sober enough,’’ said 
Laura, “ I don’t think I saw him laugh once while 
we were in the room ; but, perhaps, you had better 
make him a present of a pair of spectacles to give 
him a venerable appearance.” 

“ Well ! my dear, he laughed heartily enough 
when you and the younger sister w^ere out of the 
room. I think him a very gentlemanly young man, 
and he will be such a nice companion for William 
and Claude, when they are down here.” 

“I think Henrietta Evelyn seems a very nice 
girl,” said Laura, “ and that is more than I usually 
say of any one after a first visit. She is pretty, too, 
don’t you think so, Mamma ?” 

“ Yes ! love, she certainly is — but it is quite a 
different style of beauty from that of her sister, with 
those long, dark curls, and merry hazel eyes.” 

“ Well ! I feel very glad, altogether, that they are 
come to live so near us,” said Laura. 


How much did Beatrice and Hetty enjoy the 
country that summer ! But little happened to annoy 
them beyond a few occasional troubles with ser- 
vants — one of the girls they brought from New 
York going away in a fright, after hearing, from 
some idle tattler, the foolish story of old Mrs. Par- 
kinson’s ghost. 


234 Greatness in Little Things. 

Aunt Louisa came down and spent a month with 
them, and was never in sucli good humor — although, 
it is true, that she occasionally did her best to keep 
her nieces in order, and rather fidgeted Beatrice by 
finding fault with the manner in which various 
things about the house were dusted, arranged, or 
cleaned — and poor Hetty came in sometimes for a 
reprimand if there was the slightest sign of disorder 
in any part of her wearing apparel — nevertheless, 
matters went on, in general, very smoothly. 

Old Mr. and Mrs. Grey came down from Hew 
York several times in the course of the summer, 
just to spend a day or two, as the former could not 
well be longer spared from his ministerial duties, 
and there were several families around who were 
pleasant neighbors, beside the Melvilles, with whom 
they were very intimate. 

It was one fine evening about the middle of July, 
Beatrice was standing leaning over the fence that 
separated the orchard from the lawn, talking to Het- 
ty, awaiting her husband’s return from visiting a 
patient. It was growing quite dusk, but it was so 
cool and pleasant, that it seemed a pity to go into 
the house. 

It was not long before they saw Walter’s buggy 
coming slowly along the road, with President pro- 
ceeding at only a walking pace. 

“Dear me!” exclaimed Beatrice, “I wonder if 


The Sick Boy. 


235 


anything is the matter ! Why can Walter be driving 
so sloA^ly and she ran down the garden walk, 
followed by her sister. They soon saw that Walter 
was leaning down over some object resting on his 
left arm, while with his right he guided the reins ; 
and he appeared to be so intently absorbed, that it 
was not till the buggy came close to his wife and 
sister, that he perceived they were there. 

“ O ! come on to the house, dear Bee !” he ex- 
claimed, “ make haste, love, and I will tell you all I” 

Beatrice started when she saw Walter lift from 
the buggy what seemed to be the inanimate body 
of a little boy. His jacket and trowsers, though of 
fine cloth, were soiled and dusty, and his fair hair 
clustered thickly round a forehead that was pale and 
cold as marble ; his eyes were closed, and Beatrice 
would have thought him dead, had not Walter has- 
tily assured her to the contrary. 

“ I am going to carry him up-stairs and lay him 
on your bed, Hetty,” said Walter. “Poor little fel- 
low ! I discovered him just in time,” continued he, 
going slowly up the staircase with his burden. 
“ He was lying in a ditch about half a mile from 
the house, and it was so dusk I could scarcely dis- 
cover what it was among the thick, dank green grass ; 
but I got out of the buggy to see, and found him in 
this state. Where he comes from we cannot tell till 
he is restored to consciousness.” 

20 


236 Greatness in Litilk Things. 

It was with a careful and gentle liand that Bea- 
trice, under her husband’s superintendence, kuelt 
by the bedside of the little sufferer, and adminis- 
tered the necessary restoratives ; and it was not very 
long before he opened his blue eyes and looked at 
her for a moment, and then closed them again with 
a helpless sigh of weakness. After the lapse of a 
quarter of an hour, he seemed somewhat revived, 
and began looking curiously and anxiously around 
him. Beatrice whispered in his ear: ‘‘Do not be 
alarmed, dear child ; there are none but friends 
here.” 

“Where am I?” said the little boy. “O! I’m 
so glad to be out of that dusty road. Is this my 
grandmamma’s ? I was coming to my grandmam- 
ma’s. Naughty men took poor Papa away, and 
turned me into the street, so I came to look for my 
grandmamma.” 

Beatrice made him be quiet for the present, for 
he was too weak to talk much, and he soon fell into 
a refreshing sleep. About nine o’clock, after tea, 
Beatrice again came up-stairs to visit her little 
patient, and found him awake, and looking consid- 
erably better. The little fellow raised himself on 
one elbow, and looked inquiringly round the room. 

“ In my grandmamma’s room,” he said, “ there 
was a blue paper like this ; but you are not my 
grandmamma ; she was tall, and had a white cap 


Francis Parkinson. 237 

on. Will you fetch her, please? She was always 
good to poor Franky.” 

“ Why, Beatrice,” said Hetty, who was in the 
room, “this must surely be little Francis Parkinson ! 
the grandson, you know, of the old lady who used 
to live here. Isn’t your name Francis Parkinson, 
dear ?” 

“Ho, but my Papa’s name is Mr. Parkinson,” 
said the child, eagerly fixing his blue eyes on Hetty. 
“ My name is Franky, and I had a grandmamma 
Avho lived near here, and had a room like this, and 
her name was ‘grandmamma mother,’ I think, for 
I used to call her Grandmamma, and Papa used to 
call her ‘ mother.’” 

“You are quite right you see, Hetty,” said her 
sister, “ it is the same child. Poor little fellow ! 
what is to be done with him ?” 

Little Francis had raised himself half out of the 
bed, and now said to Beatrice : 

“ I ’m sure this must be my grandmamma’s room. 
This is the same old bed that Papa and I used to 
sleep in, for here’s a place where I scratched the 
wood with a pin to make a picture of Papa, and 
then I know he scolded me, and said that grand- 
mamma didn’t like her beds scratched.” 

“ It is your grandmamma’s house,” said Beatrice, 
“ but she is gone a long way off, so I must be kind 
to you to-night. Lie down now, Franky, and go to 


238 GliKATNESS IN LlTlLE ThINGS. 

sleep, and I will tell you more about her to-morrow. 
I am going to send you up some nice new milk and 
a bun for your supper ; so now good night, dear 
child.” 

Little Francis was easily pacified, and when he 
awoke next morning, he was surprisingly better, and 
although still weak, he was able to walk about with 
Hetty. 

It appeared that somehow or other the poor child 
had managed to make his way from New York to 
Hartford, having a little money in his pocket, and 
having frequently traveled the same journey with 
his father ; that on arriving at Hartford he began to 
walk along the Mill Town road, and met a man 
with a cart, who took him up and carried him some 
considerable distance, and then set him down, and 
the little fellow trotted on, the best w^ay he could — 
asking of all he met the way to Mill Town, and 
occasionally buying a cake or a piece of bread ; and 
that he had nearly reached his late grandmother’s 
house, when the unwonted exertion, and the fatigue 
induced by walking so far on a hot summer’s day, 
completely overcame him, and he lay down in a 
ditch by the wayside, where he was found by Walter. 

What surprised them all was how so youno- a 
child could have found his way so far ! But so it 
was — and it now only remained to be decided what 
was the best thing to do with him. It was at length 


The Search. 


settled that Walter should go to New York and en- 
deavor to find out Mr. Parkinson ; for certainly, bad 
though he appeared to be, he had the best claim to 
the child, and it would not be right to dispose of 
little Francis without consulting him. 

There was something peculiarly sweet and love- 
able, about the little fellow: it seemed as though 
scenes of coarse revelry and wickedness, had passed 
by him with their foul breath, and left him unpol- 
luted. There was a shade of melancholy sadness, 
over his little pale face, and a delicate transparency 
in his cheek, that reminded one of a fragile hot- 
house fiower. 

He appeared very much grieved, when told of his 
grandmother’s death. He said the garden looked 
very dull, without grandmamma and her brown 
Bible — “she used to tell me about the Bible,” 
continued he — “and our dear Saviour, and the 
beautiful angels — and such nice things : once, Papa 
left me here for three days ; oh ! that was such 
a nice time! it was so quiet and still in this 
pretty garden ; and people, where we go in to New 
York, seem always to make such a noise — and they 
never talk about the angels at all — and when they 
say God’s *name, they don’t seem as if they loved 
him.” 

Beatrice looked at Hetty, and smiled a sad smile : 
}t was sweet to see so pure-mipded a child, and it 


240 Gkeatness in Little Things. * 

was sad indeed, to think to what he Tiad been 
exposed. 

Walter resolved to start, the following day, in 
search of Mr. Parkinson, but how to discover his 
whereabouts he could not tell. At last Beatrice 
suggested, that they might probably be able to gain 
some intelligence concerning him from Mrs. Norris, 
the old housekeeper, who had lived with his mother 
so many years. After her mistress’ death, she had 
rented a small cottage in Mill Town, and Beatrice 
and Hetty walked over to see her, and learned 

from her, that the H hotel, in New York, was 

the place where Mr. Parkinson usually boarded ; 
for she said, she had seen the direction often on 
his carpet-bag — but beyond that, she knew nothing. 

We will not weary our readers with an account 
of all the annoyances experienced by Walter, while 
endeavoring to find out the wretched Mr. Parkinson. 
He learned from the waiter at the hotel mentioned 
by old Mrs. Norris, that he had been boarding 
there, till very lately, and that he was in the habit 

of frequenting a gambling-house on 'Street; but 

that a few nights before (evidently the occasion 
referred to by little Francis) the police had entered 
the house at a late hour of the night, and arrested 
several of the party, turning the rest of the people 
in the place, out into the street, and locking up the 
doors. The waiter said he had seen in the papers 


The Search. 


241 


that Mr. Parkinson and several others, had been 
discharged from custody, the following day, after 
paying a fine, and that he had come to the hotel, 
making inquiry for his little boy, and that he seemed 
a good deal distressed, when told that nothing had 
been seen of him ; “ but he did not appear to un- 
derstand much else, or to know how to set about 
looking for him, sir,” continued the waiter, “ for he 
was most too far gone in liquor, at the time ; indeed 
I may say, I have hardly ever seen him sober, sir, 
and his health has failed a good deal, of late. 
That poor child had a sad life with his father, though 
in general, I guess, he was pretty kind to him, 
unless he was more than ordinary-ways drunk — and 
then, may -be, he would ill-treat him a bit: but the 
little fellow never complained, and he would color 
up and seem as fierce-like as possible, if he heard 
any one saying anything ag'in’ his father. I’m 
right glad, sir, to hear as you’ve got the little chap 
safe in the country — ” 

“I wish I could find out his father,” said Walter. 

“WeU, sir, as I said before, he left this ’ere 
hotel some days ago, and where he ’s gone I can’t 
tell. May-be if you advertised he wouldn’t see it, 
for I guess, he ain’t much given to reading.” 

Walter thanked the man for his information, and 
again walked out into the street, very much unde- 


24:2 Greatness in Ltitle Things. 

cided how to act — indeed he almost gave up the idea 
of searching for Mr. Parkinson, it seemed so hopeless 
in such a city as New York, and he resolved that 
the rest of that day should be spent quietly at his 
father’s house, which was, of course, his home, 
while in the city. 

The next day, as Walter was slowly walking 
along in one of the most crowded thoroughfares of 
the city, he passed by an undertaker’s store, and 
happening, accidentally, to look in, he saw standing 
there a young man, of rather dandyish appearance, 
whose features seemed familiar to him. He stopped 
and looked again — it was Claude Melville. 

“ Why Claude ! what are you doing here ?” ex- 
claimed Walter, in astonishment — “this is the 
place that, of all others, I should least have ex- 
pected to find you in !” 

Claude did not look particularly glad to see 
Walter; he started and colored slightly, when the 
latter entered the store, but he advanced to meet 
him, and shaking hands, he said, with a forced 
laugh: “ Well, to say the truth, it is ; but you see, 
I ’m getting a coffin for a friend of mine — an unfor- 
tunate fellow who’s done for himself at last — though 
he was a jolly dog, too.” Walter looked grave, and 
said quietly : 

“ What was his name, Claude f ’ 


Parkinson’s Death. 


243 


“Well, his name was Parkinson. 1 believe he 
had a mother who used to live somewhere near that 
slow place, Mill Town.” 

“ Good God !” said Walter; “ why that’s the very 
man I’m in search of, Claude. His boy found his 
way down to our house to look for his grandmother, 
and I came up to see if I could gain any tidings of 
the father !” 

“Well, then, you needn’t look any more,” said 
Claude, in a surly tone — “and it wasn’t a doctor 
killed him this time, but an accident. I suppose 
you ’ve heard about those rowdy policemen coming 
and turning us all out in the middle of our game, 
the other night ! Well, next day, when we were let 
out of that confounded watch-house, we first went 
and had a glass of something to keep our spirits up, 
and then Parkinson went off to the hotel he used to 
board at, to see if he could find that little pale-faced 
brat of his, that he always would carry about with 
him, and during the next day or two he was quite in 
the dumps because he could hear nothing of him; so 
last night, I and one or two other fellows got him to 
come and have a spree, and we made him gloriously 
drunk — well, a little too much so — for in coming 
home Parkinson’s foot slipped, and he fell with his 
head on the curb-stone, and never spoke again. So 
there’s the end of it, if you wish to know. I’m sorry 
for him, myself, for he was a jolly sort of fellow!” 

21 


244 


Greatness in Little Things. 


“Oh! Claude, Claude!” said Walter, “how can 
you talk in that heartless way! To think — oh ! only 
to think, that you should yourself have had, as it 
were, some share in his death, and then be able t(| 
speak of it so lightly !” I 

“How dare you say that I had any share in 
his death, sir !” said Claude, his color rising as he 
spoke ; “ why, good gracious ! I Ve often got heady 
myself, but then I never happened to fall on the 
curb-stone — why, how absurd you are, Walter 
Grey!” 

“Why, Claude!” said Walter, earnestly— “ you 
will allow even to 3’^ourself, that this drunkenness 
was the cause of this unfortunate wretch’s death — 
drunkenness, too, encouraged by yow, according to 
your own confession — what is the inference ? how- 
ever, I leave that to your own conscience. Only let 
me entreat you to take the warning home, and see 
to what a beastly state the habit of intoxication 
reduces a man.” 

“Don’t lecture me, sir,” said. Claude, angrily; '‘I 
hate your milksops of men ! How, I dare say you 
were never drunk in your life ! — and let me tell 
you, I despise you for it — such a tame, sneaking 
way of living !” 

“ I should certainly feel greatly ashamed,” said 
Walter, calmly — “ if I thought I had ever thus 
degraded myself. I should be sorry so far to lose all 


Walter’s Advice. 


245 


self-respect as to be capable of doing such a thing. 
Is there any true heroism in sin^ Claude? is it not 
far, far nobler to conquer the evil passions of our 
nature, than weakly to yield to them? can it be 
anything worthy of admiration for man, a mere 
worm, to exalt himself against God, who is allgreat- 
nes, all goodness, all purity ? Oh ! believe me, be- 
lieve me, Claude ! that these things only bring misery 
and unhappiness, and lower you in the eyes of those 
whose opinion is the best worth having.” 

“Well!” said Claude, somewhat softened ; “I’m 
not going on in this way always. I intend settling 
down quite steadily some day or other.” 

“Believe me, Claude, once more!” said Walter, 
“ that you cannot ‘touch pitch and not be defiled’ — 
you cannot indulge in sinful pleasures and be the 
same man, afterward, as if you had not done so — 
you may repent, you may be sorry in after years, 
but oh ! you can never be the same. And beside, 
who can reckon, with any certainty, on having these 
years of the future to repent in ? Look at poor Par- 
kinson — how little did he think last night would be 
his last !” 

Claude made no reply ; at last he said — “ I say. 
Grey, don’t you mention, at home, about seeing me 
here — there ’s a good fellow — they ’d be bothering 
themselves as to how 1 got acquainted with Parkin- 


246 Greatness in Little Things. 

son ; and, perhaps, the less that is said about that 
the better.” 

I won’t betray you,” said Walter, “ only let me 
beg of you to try and be steadier. Pray, do you 
know if Mr. Parkinson had anything to leave to his 
child ?” 

“ Bless you, no, man ; why since his mother’s 
death — when he had spent what little money she 
left — 'he has just lived by gambling ; at one time, 
perhaps, owning a good bit, and then losing it all 
again ; so I guess you won’t gain much if you mean 
to take care of the child.” 

“ O ! never mind,” said Walter, “ we shall be 
able to arrange all that, I dare say. Good morning.” 

When Walter returned to Oakwood, it was de- 
cided by himself and Beatrice that little Francis 
should be adopted as an inmate of their family. 
To the future they would not selfishly look forward, 
by thinking whether the child might be a burden 
and inconvenience to them' — their line of duty, for 
the present^ seemed to be to befriend and protect 
him ; and there was something so sweet and win- 
ning in the little fellow’s looks and ways that they 
both felt it would be a task of Jove. 

Many people wondered at it ; but when will peo- 
ple cease to wonder at one-another’s actions ? The 
Greys felt the child to be cast on their sympathy 


AY KLCOME Letters. 247 

and love, and rich! y were they rewarded ; but more 
hereafter of little Francis. 

Two or three times during that summer Beatrice 
received letters from Madame de Tremonille — kind- 
hearted, affectionate letters — telling of herself and 
all her doings — of little Blanche, who, she said, had 
become dearer to her than ever — and of all the 
friends whom Beatrice had known during her AYest 
India sojourn. 

And these letters were welcomed by Beatrice with 
great joy, for their perusal brought back vividly be- 
fore her mind an epoch in her own life, too strik- 
ingly fraught both with sorrow and with joy to be 
unmarked or unremembered. 


CHAPTER XL 


“ How many summers, love, 

• Have I been tliine ? * 

How many days, thou dove, 

Hast thou been mine ? 

- . Look whore our children start, 

Like sudden spring; 

With tongue all sweet and low. 

Like a pleasant rhyme. 

They tell how much I owe 
To thee and thine.” 

Bakry Cornwall’s Poet’s Song to ms Wife.” 

“ We have been friends together, in sunshine and in shade. 

Since first beneath the chestnut-tree, in infancy we played ; 

But coldness dwells within thy lieurt — a cloud is on thy brow — 
We have been friends together — can a light word part us now !” 

Four years have rolled away since we took our 
last peep at Oakwood and its inhabitants. Four 
years! what changes may not take place in four 
years ; and if we look again at Oakwood, we shall 
tind that Time has wroufrht some changes tHere. 

Merry voices are heard now on the soft green 
grass before the house, for little Clement, Beatrice’s 
eldest child, a rosy boy of three summers, is shout- 
ing in a game of play with a beautiful but pale-faced 
^ ( 248 ) 


A Family Fieri; rk. 


249 


boy of nine or ten — our old friend, little Francis — 
and baby Mary comes, half-creeping, half-walking 
along, rattling her coral-and -bells, and screaming 
with delight at the fun she is too small to understand. 
Beatrice has grown somewhat more matronly than 
when we saw her last, but she looks as beautiful and 
as loving as ever, sitting in that rustic garden -seat 
with a piece of work in her hands, watching her 
childrens’ sports, and ever and anon laughing as 
merrily as themselves. But we will follow the 
doings of herself and her household for awhile. 

She was roused at last, by hearing her husband’s 
voice behind h^r whistling, and holding out his fin- 
ger to the baby, who toddled to meet him. Seating 
himself by his wife’s side, he said : 

“Well, Bee, I have had a hard day’s work, and am 
quite glad to get a quiet rest. How is Hetty now ?” 

Beatrice’s expression changed as she replied : 
“ Well, poor girl, she seems very low-spirited. I ’m 
sure I do not know how to act for the best, Walter. 
She is up-stairs in her room now, and when she 
came down, half an hour ago, to fetch something, her 
eyes looked as though she had been crying a good 
deal. Dear Hetty ! I cannot bear that she should 
be unhappy ; and yet I feel sometimes as if it were 
better to leave her to herself, and let her think 
calmly over the matter.” 

“ Dear me,” said Walter, sorrowfully, “I could 


250 Greatness in Little Things. 

wish she and Claude Melville had never met ! He 
is so utterly unworthy of her ; and yet she, with her 
trusting, loving, impulsive heart, won’t believe it — 
and that’s the worst of it, dear wife — and she so 
young too ! why she ’s not more than seventeen, is 
she ?” 

“ She will be eighteen in the autumn,” replied 
Beatrice; “1 can’t think what there is in Claude 
Melville to win such love and admiration — he is so 
unlike Hetty — though he’s certainly a handsome 
man, too — 

“ If one could only place the slightest dependence 
on him,” said Walter, in a tone of vexation. “He 
seems sincere now in his profession of love for 
Hetty — and what wonder is it that she should win 
that love, handsome and lovable as she is? But 
oh dear ! Bee, what are Claude’s habits 1 — those of a 
roue at twenty-three: the pity and the wonder is, 
that should win her love — ” 

“Well, Walter, after all, it is only candid to 
confess, that Claude can be very amusing and plea- 
sant, when he likes. Why, in spite of all his 
wildness and follies, he is the life of the house 
whenever he is at home: there are few people I 
know, who can make sketches, or sing a song, or 
entertain a company of friends better than he can — ” 

“Here’s Hetty just coming out on the lawn,” 
said Walter; “do not let us worry her about it 


Claude and Hetty. 


251 


now — let her enjoy a game of play with the child- 
ren, and then you can speak to her privately on the 
subject, dear wife — perhaps that will be the best 
way.” 

Hetty came slowly across the lawn : she has 
grown into a fine and beautiful young woman, since 
we saw her last ! Her face now wore a sad expression, 
but it brightened when little Clement and Francis 
welcomed her with a joyous shout, and running up 
to her, begged her -to come and play with them. 
The evening was closing around them — the light 
of a soft summer’s day was fast waning in the 
western sky. Walter went into the house and sat 
dowii to read a book in the drawing-room, after 
the lamp had been lighted ; little Francis fetched 
his accordion, and sat on one of the low window- 
sills, playing his favorite melodies. The child had a 
peculiarly accurate ear for music: indeed music 
was, with him, a passion — it seemed a part of him- 
self — to thrill through his whole being. He could 
already find out tunes by ear, on Beatrice’s piano- 
forte, and accompany himself with his sweet, 
melodious, childish voice. There was something 
that was perhaps, scarcely appertaining to a boy’s 
nature in Francis : he was so very gentle, and 
quiet, and sensitive. He was beloved by the whole 
household : no one could harm Francis, or have 
the heart to tease him. The slightest word of 


252 Greatness in l^rrrLE Things. 

anger, would wound him to the quick, and to Bea 
trice and Walter, he looked up as to a father and 
mother ; and they truly loved the gentle boy, who 
was so kind to their little ones, and who repaid their 
kindness by such unwearied and devoted love. lie 
now sat playing familiar airs, in a kind of dreamy 
happiness, alone and undisturbed — for Beatrice 
liad gone up-stairs to see her little ones to bed, and 
Hetty w’as still walking up and down the garden- 
path in a kind of melancholy reverie. 

The closing darkness had begun to render sur- 
rounding objects very indistinct, when Hetty heard 
a low whistle on the other side of the garden-hedge, 
which she knew but too well. It was Claude and 
gliding softly along, in a moment she was by his 
side. 

“ Is that you, my Hetty he said ; “I hoped 
you might hear me ! — how glad I am you could 
come, sweet love — ” 

‘‘ Oh ! Claude, I am very, very unhappy,” sobbed 
Hetty, leaning her head against his shoulder. 

“Why, what’s the matter, darling? have that 
bothering old brother and sister of yours been 
plaguing you ?” 

“Oh! please, don’t speak of them in that way, 
Claude — they are so kind ; they only wish me to be 
happy, I ’m sure — I ’m sure they do — ” 

“Well then, why do they make this fuss?” asked 


Claudk and Hetty. 


253 


Claude, impatiently ; shall we not be happy 
together, dear Hetty? I’m sure no one could love 
you half as well as I do !” 

“ I know you love me, dear Claude,” said Hetty, 
trustfully ; — but when I hear things said against 
you, I like to hear from yourself, that they are 
false — of course, I know they must be — ” 

“What things, dearest — tell me; what can they 
find to say against me ?” Hetty hesitated. 

“Why, Claude, they have spoken,” said she 
timidly, as if you were sometimes too fond of drink, 
and of gambling ; but, you know, I did not believe 
them; I only like to tell you about it, that you 
may know why they do not wish us to see more of 
each other.” 

Claude flinched a little, as he thought of all that 
Walter Grey knew of his going on, and Beatrice, 
too, for aught he could tell ; but he said, hurriedly : 
“ Nonsense, dear Hetty ; have you ever seen me 
tipsy, or betting, or anything of the kind ? You 
should never believe idle reports without seeing 
the truth for yourself. Beside,” he added, “if I 
};ave done wrong sometimes, dear Hetty^ I mean to 
be very good now ; you are going to make me so, 
you know.” 

“God only can make us good: you must not say 
that, Claude,” said Hetty, gravely. 


254 Greatness in Liftle Things. 

O ! I know,” said he, carelessly ; “ I meant that, 
only I didn’t express it. I feel I shall owe you a 
great deal, Hetty. You know, I have never hap- 
pened to find a profession to suit me, and if we 
can manage to stock the farm I was speaking of, 
with part of your money, why we shall be quite 
rich, and as happy as the days are long. It will 
seem like being dependent on my sweet little wife at 
first, but never mind ! we shall do great things yet, 
and there shall not be such another farm in the 
whole country as ours. Do not you trust me, dear 
girl ?” 

“ I do, I do, Claude. I will not mind what is 
said of you — ^have I not said I will be yours ? Whole 
worlds could not separate us now — that is, if your 
love is the same.” 

“ My life ! what have I without you ?” said 
Claude, kissing her. “ Be firm, love, and all will 
go right. You know the old saying is, — “ The 
course of true love never did run smooth.” 

“I must go in, now, Claude; I’m afraid I have 
already lingered too long. Beatrice will be won- 
dering what has become of me. Good-night, dear 
Claude.” 

“ Good -night, darling, if you must go.” 

She was at the house in a minute. Oh ! what a 
trusting loving heart that was! yet oh! how mis- 


The Disclosure. 


255 • 


taken in its trust! Sweet Hetty ! why close your ears 
to the voice of warning till it be too late ? Why did 
Hetty color like a guilty thing, when on stepping 
into the drawing-room she saw both Walter and 
Beatrice look up at her from where they were quietly 
sitting, reading and working? Why was it? It 
was not that she meant to use deception — for she 
had determined to tell Beatrice of what Claude had 
said of himself and of her having seen him in the 
garden. Hetty was impulsive and hasty, but she 
had a soul above deceit— it had no place in her 
character— -and she looked up to Beatrice as to a 
mother, although in this instance, perhaps for the 
first time in her life, she thought her mistaken — mis- 
taken with reference to Claude. Neither her sister 
nor Walter, however, made any remark to her at the 
present moment, to her great relief ; and she soon 
after went to bed, pleading a headache as an excuse 
for retiring early. 

Next morning, while they were all sitting at 
breakfast, a letter came in from New York, from old 
Mrs. Grey to Beatrice. The latter bit her lip with 
vexation as she read it ; it was a congratulatory let- 
ter on the approaching marriage of Claude and 
Hetty ! The old lady said “ she had received the 
news that morning from Laura Melville, and that she 
was, indeed, surprised to hear it — having received 
no hint on the subject from either her son or her 


' 256 Greatness in Little Things. 

danghter-in-law. Laura had enjoined profound 
secrecy on the subject,” she continued, “but that 
she did not suppose it probable that the injunction 
should extend to Beatrice, as it was so unlikely that 
Hetty and Claude should be engaged without her 
knowledge and consent.” Walter looked up in sur- 
prise at his wife, as she read the letter, and then 
turning to Hetty, whose face was crimsoned with 
blushes, he said almost sternly : — 

“Hetty, how could you think of letting Claude 
speak publicly of your engagement in his own fam- 
ily ? Why did matters go so far without your sister 
and myself knowing it 

“ Oh ! Walter, Walter, indeed I had nothing to 
do with it,” said Hetty, bursting into tears. “ Claude 
said one day, that he had told his mother, privately, 
that we — that we — ^loved each other, and that she said 
she was very glad of it ; but more than this he pro- 
mised me not to say to any one. Oh ! do not judge 
harshly of me, dear Walter and Beatrice. I have 
no secrets from you, I am sure ; you know all, and 
how far everything has been settled.” 

“Well, don’t cry, Hetty,” said Walter; “I see 
how it is. I suppose Mrs. Melville disclosed to 
Laura what Claude had told her — as a great secret, 
probably — and Laura, as you might fancy, could 
not rest with a piece of news to communicate, but 
must needs write off to Hew York instanter. Oh ! 


Hetty’s Confidence. 


267 


what a pity it is to be such a gossip ! But never 
mind about my mother hearing it — the news will 
not spread any farther with her — and you know,” 
he continued, looking earnestly at Hetty, “ I do not 
think matters have gone so far that they cannot be 
recalled. I’m sure I hope not.” 

“Oh ! W alter, how can you ? I wish you to arrange 
everything ; but we are promised to each other now — 
I could never, never love any one else. Why should 
you and Beatrice dislike poor Claude so much ?” 

“ Hetty, why should you judge so wrongly of 
me ?” said her brother-in-law. “Why can you not 
believe, my dear sister, that I wish all for your good, 
and that I would not say a word against the mar- 
riage, if I thought Claude Melville worthy to be your 
husband ? As to the promise, it would be better to 
break that now than to take a step you might rue 
for life.” 

“ But he is good now, Walter,” said Hetty, burst- 
ing afresh into tears ; “ indeed, indeed he is. You 
don’t know how steady and persevering he means to 
be. I know he loves me too well to do anything 
to annoy me.” 

“ Sister,” said Beatrice earnestly, “ do you really 
think he has Christian principles ? Without these, 
what reliance can be placed on any one’s conduct ? 
Dear Hetty, how can you be happy together if ho 
does not love God 


258 Greatness in Little Things. 

^^But he is not careless,” said Hetty warmly; 
“ we have often talked together on serious subjects, 
and he seems to think just as I do.” 

Acquiescence is not practice,” said Walter, 
gravely ; “ I only hope Claude may be all you be- 
lieve him to be. Do not think me harsh or unkind, 
Hetty ; I only wish you to act cautiously ; you have 
a fond, warm, loving heart, that leads you to believe 
all things to be as you would wish them. But it is 
time I went out ; I see old Socrates has brought the 
buggy round, and I have some patients I ought to 
visit” — so saying, he rose from his chair and kissed 
Hetty on the forehead as he passed out of the room. 

It was little more than a fortnight after the pre- 
ceding conversation, that Claude and Hetty’s en- 
gagement was publicly announced. It was with 
hopeful yet half-mistrustful hearts that Walter and 
Beatrice gave their consent to the marriage. They 
feared lest Hetty had decided too hastily ; but she 
had decided, and they could only hope for the best. 

Hetty’s money, left her by her father, was, as we 
have seen before, to revert to her own control in case 
of her marriage. Beatrice had urged her to have a 
portion of it, at least, settled upon herself ; but she 
refused to do so, saying that it would seem to be 
doubting Claude. 

A very pretty farm had been bought for them by 
Mr. Melville, only about a mile distant from Oak- 


.Hetty’s Marriage. 


^259 


wood, so that Beatrice felt she should still be near 
her sister to help her in any difficulties and troubles 
she might encounter on her first commencing house- 
keeping. A considerable portion of Hetty’s money 
had been laid out in stocking the farm, and all 
things certainly looked well and promising, and 
with a little patience and perseverance a comfort- 
able income might be reckoned upon from the pro- 
duce of the land.* 

It was on a calm, mild day in the latter end of 
October, that Claude Melville led his loving, trust- 
ing young bride to the altar. 

How true it is that a wedding-day is often a very, 
very sorrowful one! Beatrice felt very much at 
parting from her sister, for though she would still 
be near her, her home would be that of another, and 
their intercourse could not be so unrestrained as for- 
merly. 

After the wedding, the young couple passed some 
time in traveling about, and the cold, dreary days 
of winter were fast approaching before they got set- 
tled at Mow Farm. 

It was rather a bad time of the year for Claude 
to make trial of a quiet country life, but the in-door 
amusements of reading and music, and chatting with 
his pretty wife, together with almost daily expedi- 
tions either to Springfield or Oak wood, effectually 
banished monotony. When the early bright days 
22 


260 Greatness in JjIttle Things. 

of spring came, too, there was abundant scope for 
his energies in directing and superintending the 
necessary farming operations, the novelty of which 
made them attractive to liim ; and he really worked 
so steadily, and appeared so persevering, that Bea- 
trice and Walter began to hope they had indeed 
judged too harshly of him. 

The summer crept on with its warm, sunny days, 
and its out-door pleasures; but \tith it came, too, 
dark tidings of sickness, spreading slowly but fear- 
fully through the neighborhood. The attacks of the 
destroying fever were not confined to one or two 
families, but before July came there were few in 
the parish who had not to mourn the loss of some 
relative or friend. Walter Grey shrunk not from 
his duty as a physician from any fear of personal 
exposure, but w’as day and night unremitting in 
his attention to the sick, uniting, as he always en- 
deavored to do, the spiritual aid of the Christian 
wfith the material aid of the physician. 

Beatrice’s heart often misgave her on her hus- 
band’s account, and she secretly trembled for his 
safety, though she was far too noble-minded even to 
wish him to neglect those placed under his charge 
for any selfish consideration whatsoever. The dis- 
ease had not been taken by any of her own house- 
hold, nor by any one at Mow Farm, so that she was 
able to see her sister very frequently. 


Mrs. Melville’s Sickness. 261 

One evening, after tea was over at Oakwood, Wal- 
ter, tired with the labors of the day, was stretched 
on a mat near the drawing-room window, playing 
with his little ones, while Beatrice sat near them 
working, and little Francis was lying near another 
window, lost in “ Sandford and Merton.” Looking 
np, Walter perceived Mr. O’Keilly, Mr. Melville’s 
steward, riding np to the garden gate. He started 
to his feet, for the trouble and sickness all around, 
made him nervous and anxious. 

This time his fears were not groundless, Mrs. Mel- 
ville had been taken suddenly ill, with every symp- 
tom of the dreaded fever, and begged him, if possi- 
ble, to come to her directly, which he did, only just 
stopping to tell Beatrice what was the matter. Mrs. 
’Melville was a kind, motherly woman, and one who 
had been very kind to the Greys since they had 
settled at Oakwood, and Walter felt almost as anx- 
ious on her account, as though she had been a near 
relation. She was a stout, healthy, florid person, 
too, and he had great fears that it would go hard 
with her. During the next two or three days, she 
indeed became alarmingly ill, and Laura was, .un- 
fortunately, a most useless nurse. She had not the 
patience and quiet endurance so necessary for an 
attendant in a sick-chamber; but when she saw her 
poor mother tossing in delirium or moaning with 
pain, she would become hysterical and nervous, and 


2(»2 Greatness in Little Things. 

instead of controlling her feelings, she would yield 
to them, and claim for herself that attention and 
sympathy which was so much needed by the suffer- 
ing invalid. Twice Laura walked over to Oakwood, 
and Beatrice, from fear of infection, spoke to her 
from an open window as she stood in the garden 
below. She could not bear, she said, the restraint 
of a sick room, it quite overcame her — it was not 
that she did not feel — O ! no, her feelings were only 
too strong; she wished she could be as calm as 
others. “ Poor Papa does most of the nursing,” she 
continued ; ‘‘ he is so quiet and so little excitable, 
and, of course. Mamma likes him to be there.” 

“But, dear Laura,” said Beatrice, “you surely 
cannot think it right to give way to your feelings in 
this manner; why if every one did so, we should* 
have no one left to nurse us when we were sick; we 
should all learn to consider others before ourselves. 
Do you not think, Laura, that even now your poor 
Papa may be wanting your help; there must be a 
thousand little things for you to attend to about the 
house, at such a time as this.” 

‘^O! I don’t know anything about housekeeping, 
and old Rebecca is always in and out of Mamma’s 
room,” said Laura, impatiently; “and really, Mrs. 
Grey, I felt obliged to run down here and speak to 
you a bit ; if I’ve anything on my mind, it does me 
so much good to tell it to somebody else.” 


Mks. Melville’s Sickness. 263 

Beatrice could scarcely forbear smiling •— this 
craving for sympathy formed so essential a part of 
Laura’s character — but she said, gently : “ Do, 
Laura, there’s a dear girl, go back and try and 
content yourself — think quietly and calmly what 
you ought to do, and forget yourself and your feel- 
ings, if you can ; you will not mind my saying this 
to you, dear Laura ?” 

“O! no,” said Laura, “it’s very kind of you; 
only you have no idea how weak my nerves are I 
the sight of any suffering affects me fifty times more 
than it would a cold, apathetic sort of person.” 

“ Granted, Laura, perhaps it does — but the path 
of duty is the same — there may be more obstacles 
to overcome, but the right line of conduct is equally 
clear. Good-by, now, for I must go back to the 
nursery. I hear my little Clement shouting for 
mamma.” 

The next day Walter despaired of Mrs. Melville’s 
life, and he dispatched a messenger to Mow Farm, 
to tell Claude that if he wished to see his mother 
alive, he must come over to Springfield at once. 

Although Claude had, from the first, heard of his 
mother’s illness, he had never been to see her — self- 
ishly fearing the infection, and comforting himself 
with saying that he felt she would soon be better, 
and that if she was delirious, what was the use of 
his going. Hetty was surprised and grieved at her 


264 : GREA'fNEss IN Little Things. 

husband’s undutiful conduct, but she could not pre- 
vail upon him to change his purpose. His eldest 
brother, William, had arrived from Hew York the 
night before, but up to this time Mrs. Melville 
had, indeed, been scarcely conscious. This evening, 
however, the man who brought the pressing message 
from Walter, said that he believed his Mistress was 
sensible — as is, indeed, generally the case in similar 
complaints before the last closing scene. 

Claude walked up and down the room in painful 
uncertainty — he did not set off to see liis poor 
mother, and yet, conscience was pleading too hard 
to allow of his deciding to stay. 

A cloud rested on his brow, and he preserved a 
moody silence, which Hetty dared not break, though 
she sat looking at him with tears in her eyes. She 
feared to irritate her husband, for she had already 
found out what he was when provoked. At last the 
door of the room they wei'e in was softly opened, 
and Susan, the little dairymaid, looked in, and 
addressing Hetty in a sorrowful voice, said : 

“ If you please. Ma’am, I wanted to tell you that 
Bessie Markham, (her, you know. Ma’am, as used 
to live as nurse-girl with Mrs. Grey) died this morn- 
ing of the fever. Oh ! I feel so bad about it,” said 
the poor girl, wiping her eyes ; “ Bessie and me was 
like sisters — oh! if they’d only told me she was 
sick, I ’d ha’ gone to nurse her. It seems so hard 


Claude’s Misconduct. 


265 


not to have been able to bid her one last good-by.” 
And Susan shut the door gently as she spoke, for 
she perceived that something was troubling her 
master and mistress. 

“ One last good-by ! One last good-by !” mut- 
tered Claude to himself, and he walked up and down 
more quickly and uneasily than before; at last he 
shook himself, as if throwing off some disagreeable 
burden, and said : “ No, no, I wouldn’t go, if it were 
only on your account, Hetty.” 

“Oh! Claude! Claude! for the love of Heaven 
don’t think of me — trust in God, and go to your poor 
mother. Beside, if fear for my safety keeps you, 
you can do as Walter does when he goes home — 
change your clothes when you come back.” 

Claude made no reply — he walked up and down 
still — and at last said, in an angry tone: 

“No! I’m not good enough to die; so I tell you 
I’m not going. Bless me! why I couldn’t save her 
life if I did go. I hate infectious diseases, and I 
have a presentiment that I shall die if I go ; so I’m 
not going, and there ’s an end of it.” 

Hetty stole up behind him, and locking both her 
hands round his arm, and looking up earnestly and 
tearfully into his face, she said: “Claude, dear 
husband, you have always been your mother’s 
favorite son— oh ! if she should ask for you !” 


266 Greatness in Little Things. 

“ Get out of the way, will you !” said he, with a 
curse, shaking her off him with such force as to 
send her nearly to the other end of the room ; “ I’m 
not going to be plagued by you or any one else, you 
little fool. Don’t you think I’m the best judge of 
my own actions ?” 

Tears streamed from Hetty’s eyes ; she made no 
reply, but went up-stairs to her own room and sat 
down, leaning her head against the bed. 

“ Oh ! I know, I know,” thought she, “ that it is 
conscience that makes him angry with me. Poor 
Claude ! I’m so sorry for him. I know he loves me, 
but oh I I wish he would not give way to his temper 
quite so much !” and she looked at her arm which 
was slightly cut and bruised from being struck 
against the edge of a cabinet in the room below, 
where her husband so roughly repulsed her. “Oh! 
if not for my sake alone, yet for the sake of — ” and 
she sighed deeply, for she knew that she should 
shortly become a mother, and that this gave her a 
double claim on her husband’s sympathy and care- 
ful love. 

That evening Mrs. Melville died, after having in 
vain called for her Claude — her darling boy. Oh ! 
why was he not there ? 

Laura was comparatively calm and quiet — for 
Walter watched over her like a brother, and per- 


Mrs. Melville’s Death. 


267 


Buaded her to remain by her dying mother’s bed- 
side — and what a consolation it was to her after- 
ward to feel that she had done so! How bitterly 
Claude’s conscience reproached him could only be 
gathered from his gloomy silence and ill- humor. 
He forbore all reference to the subject, though he 
seemed sorry for the way in which he had treated 
his gentle wife ; and she was but too ready to 
receive his excuses, and still to trust implicitly in 
his love and kindness toward her. 

23 


CHAPTER XII. 


“ A deep and a mighty shadow 
Across my heart is thrown, 

Like the cloud on a summer meadow, 

Where the thunder- wind hath blown.” 

Babrt Cornwall. 

“ Wish not, dear friends, my pain away — 

Wish me a wise and thankful heart ; 

With God in all my griefs to stay — 

Nor from his lov’d correction start.” — Keble. 

Alas ! for Beatrice — the loving husband and father 
at Oakwood was, erelong, himself stretched on the 
bed of languishing ; and although with him the sick- 
ness was not to quench the life-spring, yet it brought 
many, many weary hours of anxious watching. Bea- 
trice’s heart bled when she saw the husband of her 
love tossing in pain and fever ; but strength was given 
her to trust all confidingly to a heavenly Father’s 
love, knowing that all things are in His hands. 
Her sweet babes were dispatched to Mow Farm, 
with their nurse, when Walter was first taken ill, — 
for Beatrice knew that they would there be away 

from the infection, and that, feeling they were safe 
( 268 ) 


Walter's Sickness. 269 

under Hetty’s care, she could devote herself without 
interruption to the care of her sick husband. 

Little Francis could not be persuaded to leave 
her, and cried so bitterly when Beatrice wanted to 
send him with the other children, that she at last 
allowed him to remain, only prohibiting his entering 
the sick room. It was now the gentle boy’s daily 
delight to walk over to the farm and be the bearer 
back of messages of love and tidings for Beatrice, 
of the safety of her little ones. 

It was wonderful how so young a boy could do so 
much or be so useful, in a quiet, unpretending way. 
Before Walter’s illness, if the nurse were busy, or 
went out, Francis could, at all times, be trusted with 
the charge of little Clement and Mary, playing with 
them and amusing them by the hour together— or, 
perhaps, telling them simple stories — all sitting 
under the shade of a large tree. There was some- 
thing essentially unobtrusive in Francis’ goodness. 
He would do all sorts of useful things about the 
house and garden, in such a quiet way, that those 
unobservant would scarcely notice they were done. 

These were now his holidays, for it was now the 
month of August ; but he had, of late, been to 
a school in the town, as a day-boarder; and there 
he was a universal favorite both with the master 
and the boys. 


270 Greatness in Little Things. 

Francis had a noble soul : he applied himself to 
learning, because he loved it, for its own sake, and 
because he wished to please Walter and Beatrice; 
not because he was driven or forced into it — ^yet 
music was the ruling passion of his heart. In the 
summer days, during school-recess, there might 
often be seen, sitting or lying about in the shade 
of a large tree in the playground, a group of boys 
listening to Francis’ sweet, childish voice as he sang 
to them all their favorite ballads ; and child though 
he was, that young, heroic mind would fearlessly 
rebuke sin, or gently plead with tyranny, and bold, 
wicked wrong among the boys. Beatrice and Wal-* 
ter rejoiced in their adopted boy, and he was indeed 
worthy of their love. 

September came, and Walter was rapidly recov- 
ering his health. Beatrice’s little ones had come 
home, for there was no danger now, and Claude 
Melville had got a large party of New York 
bachelor friends down at Mow Farm,, for the shooting 
season ; so that Hetty could no longer be burdened 
with the charge. 

Beatrice went over two or three timeSj to see her 
sister, when W alter could spare her ; but her visits 
were not very agreeable, for she did not at all like the 
appearance or manners of Claude’s Mends. Even 
Hetty, gentle and uncomplaining as she was, said 
they were too bold, and coarse, and noisy to suit 


Cr.AUDE’s Friends. 


271 


her taste at all, and that she feared they were not 
very good companions for her husband. Beatrice 
forbore to press her, for she knew how extremely 
averse Hetty was to saying anything against 
Claude — anything that might in the slightest de- 
gree further prejudice her sister against him — and 
Claude was still, in general, kind and loving to- 
ward his wife ; and she treasured up his words and 
looks of love, as precious jewels, while she cast his 
misdeeds behind her back. They could not, how- 
ever, afford to keep many servants at Mow Farm, 
and the continual presence of these gentlemen-visit- 
ors, brought many additional household cares upon 
her — which her strength was, indeed, unable to 
bear; but she complained not; she thought it 
pleased Claude to have them, and she was anxious 
that all the domestic arrangements should be con- 
ducted so as to be a credit to her as his wife. 

Beatrice, however, saw with concern that she was 
overtasking her strength, and one morning, when 
she had driven over to the farm, and brought her 
sister back to Oak wood, to spend a quiet hour with 
herself and Walter, she said : 

“ Hetty, dear, I think you have too much to do 
now at home ; you ought to take care of yourself — 
when are those men going to leave 

“ Oh ! 1 don’t know,” she replied, with a gentle 
sigh; “I don’t like to ask Claude, for he will 


272 Greatness in Little Things. 

think that I want to get rid of his friends. , I only 
wish they would not stop up so late at night — I 
think that is what tires me so — ” 

‘‘ That is a pity, dearest,” said Beatrice ; “ how 
do they amuse themselves 

“ Why,” said Hetty, half hesitating, ‘‘ they have 
wine, you know — and they sing songs and tell 
stories ; and generally, about nine o’clock, they 
begin to play cards. I usually go away early, for 
they sing queer sorts of things, sometimes, that I 
don’t like at all — indeed, Claude often makes signs 
to me to go away, and then I creep up-stairs to bed, 
and sometimes I lie down and read ; but I cannot 
sleep or feel easy till Claude comes up, and the 
house is still and quiet. Oh ! we were so much 
happier before these people came.” 

Beatrice sighed, but she scarcely knew what to 
say to comfort her sister. 

“ Do you see much of Laura, now, dear Bee ?” 
said Hetty. 

Well ! I have been over there as often as I could 
spare the time, lately,” replied Beatrice ; “ I felt that 
poor Laura has been greatly in need of sympathy 
and kindness since her mother’s death, with no 
sister to help her, or be a companion to her. And 
she has been very little used to the cares of house- 
keeping ; poor Mrs. Melville was so fond of manag- 
ing everything herself, that it has spoiled Laura for 


News from Pai.m Hiix. 273 

taking her place, but I believe she is now really 
trying in earnest to be practical.” 

“ It may be a good thing for her, poor girl, to 
have domestic duties to attend to,” said Hetty, “ it 
will make her care less about trifling concerns 
among the neighbors. Laura is a kind-hearted 
creature, too, though she sometimes quizzes a lit- 
tle.” 

“Perhaps this has been encouraged in her,” said 
Beatrice ; “ I do not think she means unkindly. O! 
by-the-by, dear Hetty, I had a letter from Madame 
de Tremonille this morning ; she says they are all 
well, and she tells me a good deal of news about our 
friends there. Mary Gisborne, you know, was mar- 
ried two years ago to the son of a merchant at St. 
Thomas. He was ordained for a missionary life, a 
short time ago, and now he and his wife are in the 
East Indies, laboring in the cause of Christ. You 
know both the girls became members of Mr. Camp- 
bell’s church a little while after I left Palm Hill, 
and they have been a great comfort to Madame 
de Tremonille as companions. Caroline is still at 
home, with her father and mother ; not less useful, 
perhaps, than her sister, for Mr. Gisborne employs 
a good many negroes on his estate, and her mission 
is among them, attending to their wants both spiri- 
tual and temporal, and being her parents’ right-hand 
helper in all home-duties. 


274 Greatness in Litile Things. 

“ Madame de Tremonille says, that Blanche is 
growing up a lovely girl ; she is fifteen now, and she 
says she is as tall as herself. Mr. Campbell is still 
as unweariedly useful, and still a bachelor — indeed, 
there are sly hints thrown out in the letter, that 
he is waiting for Blanche. I know, now,” said 
Beatrice, smiling; how this plan would delight 
Isabelle, for she would then get her darling child 
settled near her; however, time only will show whe- 
ther her suspicions are correct wdth respect to the 
minister’s matrimonial intentions. She does not 
speak much of herself — but I fear, from what she 
says, she is not ver}^ strong.” 

‘‘I arn afraid I must go home now, dear Bee,” 
said Hetty, “ I have a good many things to do, and 
Claude does not like to come home and find me 
out.” 

“ Well I then, if yon must go, I ’ll drive you over, 
Hetty,” said Walter. 

That evening, after the children were all gone to 
bed, Walter mentioned his fears to his wife that 
Claude was beginning to neglect the farm, and that 
by entirely resigning its management into the hands 
of others, he was getting cheated in every direction. 

“To say the truth, dear Bee,” he continued, “I 
am feeling uncomfortable about Claude on many 
accounts. W^hen I took Hetty home, this afternoon, 
he met us at the door, and, early as it was in the 


Claude and Walter. 


275 


day, he seemed scarcely sober — and he spoke so 
harshly and crossly to his wife, because she had 
been out a little while. Poor girl ! 1 saw her color 
change, and she gave him a sort of look of entreaty 
as she went into the house. I showed him, by my 
manner, that I was surprised at his speaking to 
Hetty in that way, and after a few minutes’ farther 
conversation, I ventured to say to him, that I feared 
Hetty was overtasking her strength, and that his 
having so many visitors in the house, must cause 
her a great many additional domestic troubles. He 
looked rather sulky when I said this, and replied : 
‘Well! she’ll have the house quiet enough soon; 
my friends are going away the day after to-mon’ow, 
and I intend going with them to New York, for a 
few days.’ ” 

‘“Why! you surely wouldn’t think of leaving 
your wife here all alone, would you?’ I said. ‘That 
doesn’t seem kind ; and your farm, too, will not get 
along very well with the master out, particularly 
just now, when all the crops are coming in — ’” 

“ ‘ Oh ! bother it ! don’t talk to me,’ he replied, 
‘I’m not going to make myself a slave to my wife 
or my farm, either. The crops will all be got in safe 
enough by the men ; and Hetty, I dare say, won’t 
miss me much for a week or so.’ ” 

“ I told him I was sure she would be far happier 
if he remained at home ; but he did not seem to like 


276 


Greatness in Little Things, 


to discuss the subject, so we parted. I had hoped, 
dear Bee, to have induced him to come here oftener, 
and also to be more sociable with his father and 
Laura, for I am sure the society of his old compan- 
ions is not likely to do him any good.” 


It was a few mornings after the above conversa- 
tion. Beatrice was busy, making some arrange- 
ments in her store-closet — her two little ones being 
out in the garden with their nurse — when she heard 
footsteps in the room behind her, and turning she 
saw her sister standing there, with tears in her eyes. 
Beatrice threw her arms round her neck, and kissed 
her, begging her to tell her what was the matter. 

“O! he’s gone! Claude is gone to New York, 
dear Bee. I do feel so lonely and unhappy. He 
might have stayed with me a little longer 1 Those 
horrid men coaxed him away, or I know he wouldn’t 
have gone” — and Hetty leaned her head on Bea- 
trice’s shoulder, and wept bitterly. After a time 
she said: 

“ It was only the night before last, that he first 
mentioned to me that he was going, and I begged 
and prayed him not to leave me, (he never men- 
tioned my going too, wasn’t that odd ?) and he 

almost promised me that he would stay at home 

but the next day, when he began to tell his friends 


Claude’s Departure. 


277 


that he thought he should change his mind and not 
go, they laughed at him, and told him he was under 
‘ petticoat government’ — wasn’t that a shame ? — and 
at last they persuaded the poor fellow to go.” 

“ I feel so very sorry for you, dear Hetty,” said 
her sister, sighing ; “ I do indeed pity you from the 
bottom of my heart, but you must only bear up 
against the trial now, as well as you can. You had 
better come over and stay with us till Claude comes 
back. Do — you will not feel so lonely then.” . 

“O, no! I am afraid that would not do at all, 
dear Bee, else you know how much I should like it. 
The people at the farm would then have nobody at 
all left to look after them ; and though I cannot do 
much, yet it would not be right to leave the place 
quite to itself. I wish so much that you would let 
Brands come home from school for a week, and stay 
with me. I do not think Claude can be gone longer 
than that.” 

“Certainly, dear, Francis shall come. He gets 
on so well with his lessons, that a week’s holiday 
will not put him back much. He’s a dear fellow, 
and the most companionable boy I ever saw. I am 
glad you thought of asking for him, Hetty. If j-ou 
will stay now, and spend this afternoon with me, 
when Francis comes home from school in the after- 
noon, I can soon put up his clothes, and drive you 


278 Greatness in Little Things. 

both back to the farm. Cheer up, dear Hetty ; I 
dare say Claude will soon be back.’’ 


But the days wore slowly away, and Claude was 
not so very soon back, either — one, two, three 
tedious weeks elapsed , and he came not. Hetty’s 
fond heart sank within her, and she became low- 
spirited and melancholy. Since Claude had been 
in New York, he had several times drawn large 
sums of money from the bank at Hartford, where 
their little all was deposited ; and now these draw- 
ings increased alarmingly, and there was little pros- 
pect of sufficient being left for the necessary autumn 
and spring farming operations. Walter was very, 
very uneasy on Hetty’s account. He knew full well 
that all this profuse expenditure could only be ac- 
counted for by Claude’s having taken to his old habit 
of gambling, and he at last determined to write to 
his father in New York, and beg him to try and find 
out Claude, and induce him, if possible, to come home 
immediately. This plan happily proved a successful 
one — for when the aged minister repaired to the hotel 
where Claude stayed, and sought and obtained 
a private interview with him, he pleaded with 
him so earnestly, and yet so gently and lovingly 
to return to his young wife and his home, that 


Hetty’s Grief. 


279 


Claude, in whom every kindly impulse was not 
yet dead, determined to set off at once, without 
daring to trust himself again among his so-called 
“ friends.” 

The meeting almost overcame poor Hetty. She 
was too glad to see her husband again to chide him 
for his long absence ; and indeed, Claude, though 
at times gloomy and reserved, and even refraining 
from hinting at the cause of his protracted absence, 
yet seemed, in some measure, touched by Hetty’s 
gentle and devoted affection, and for a time she had 
no cause of complaint. Indeed, she was one of 
those happy-minded people who always make the 
best of everything, and seeing her husband at home 
and showing toward her something of his former 
attention and kindness, she thought not of reproach- 
ing him for the past, or of needlessly anticipating 
trouble for the future. 

It was November when Claude came back, and 
merry Christmas was soon with them — that season 
of the year which, of all others, seems to shed joy 
and gladness round the domestic hearth. Santa 
Claus was liberal in his gifts to little Clement, and 
Mary, and Francis ; and at Mow Farm he brought 
a precious little gift to Hetty and Claude, in the 
form of a sweet little blue-eyed daughter. 

The acquisition of this little treasure seemed, for 
a time, to melt Claude’s heart into renewed kind- 


280 Greatness in Little Things. 

ness toward Hetty ; but as spring advanced, farm- 
affairs began to worry him — and this because cash 
was getting short, and he knew that he had brought 
all the inconvenience upon himself, by his losses at 
the gambling-table. When a little had been ex- 
pended in sowing spring-crops, there was scarcely 
enough left to keep the house; and Claude began 
to get into his reserved, gloomy ways again — and 
alas ! what was worse than all, he would seek more 
and more, to drown care and thought in drink. 
This sad habit seemed now to grow upon him, and 
it filled Hetty’s heart with dismay. It was in vain 
that she remonstrated, wept, and entreated : when 
the demon of strong drink has taken hold of a man, 
it is very, very diflScult to shake off its fiendish 
chains. In general, after any particular excess, 
Claude would show some remorse, and promise to 
reform — but when the temptation came, he fell. 

It was one day in the latter end of April — nature 
was bursting all afresh into life, and everything in 
the outer world looked so heart-cheering and lovely, 
that it seemed more incongruous than ever, for man 
to lie debased in sin and misery, deaf to the sweet 
voices around him — and at Mow Farm, the valleys 
and uplands were green with fresh spring verdure : 
snow-white lambs were dotted over the pastures ; 
the tall trees were gently opening their leaves, to 
afford that shade which would soon be so much 


Hetty’s Grieb\ 


281 


needed, and the sweet spring flowers were merrily 
lifting up their heads, under every hedgerow. 

And yet in the dwelling-house, happiness reigned 
not; for though Hetty was sitting in the comfort- 
able parlor, with her lovely babe on her knee, tears 
were fast falling from her eyes, and bedewing its 
rosy face. Claude was sitting on a chair near the 
window, lazily rocking backward and forward 
smoking a cigar, and looking very moody and cross. 

“ Why, I don’t see what good your going away 
now could possibly do, dear Claude,” said his wife 
gently— 

“Well, good, or no good, I won’t stop here,” 
said he; “what’s the use of it? we’ve no money, 
and we can’t live on air till the crops are ripe — ^and 
there ’s not much of them either.” 

“ I dare say your father would lend you a little 
money till the fall, love — and you know we could 
live very economically and sparingly — ^there is a 
little money, too, coming in every week, for milk, 
and butter and eggs.” 

“Well, I’m not going to borrow money of my 
father,” said Claude ; “ I hate to be dependent— and 
beside I ’m tired of this kind of life ; I think Hew 
York would suit me better ; at any rate. I’ll go 
there, and see if there is anything likely to turn up. 
I don’t think farming is at all in my line after all— 
it’s too monotonous.” 


282 Greatness in Little Things. 

“ I never feel it monotonous, dear Claude, when 
we are together ; and then we have so many friends 
near here — ” 

“ Pshaw I it’s all very well for a woman ; but I 
want more excitement. But don’t you worry your- 
self about me — ^I’ll be back before long — and you’ve 
got the baby to amuse you now, too — ” 

“Oh! Claude 1” said Hetty, and the tears rolled 
afresh down her cheek as she spoke, “I know baby 
is a little darling ; but I know, I know I shall be 
unhappy unless its papa is with me to love it.’ 

“Nonsense, Hetty — I see I must train you to 
accustom yourself to be happy without me. I like 
to come and go as I please. I have a free spirit, and 
freedom I will have.” And saying these words, 
Claude walked out of the room and banged the door 
after him. 

Oh ! Claude, Claude ! don’t you know that your 
idea of freedom is but the indulgence of gross self- 
ishness 1 


The following day Claude started for New York, 
taking with him nearly all the ready money ; and 
Hetty was once more left alone at the farm. 

Her own little one increased daily in loveliness 
and strength, and Beatrice’s children often came 
over to spend a day with their aunt at the farm, 
which was one of their greatest treats, and a source 


Hetty’s Grief. 


283 


of unbounded delight ; for though Oakwood was a 
pretty place to run about in, yet the farm possessed 
unfailing and boundless attraction, with its cattle, 
and sheep, and poultry, and beehives, and rabbits, 
and other delights too many to enumerate. When 
playing with the little ones, and going excursions 
with Francis and Clement to favorite nooks and 
sequestered dells, Hetty would almost, for a time, 
forget her own anxieties and troubles ; but Claude’s 
continued absence lay heavy at her heart. Three 
weeks slipped away : she heard fi;om him once or 
twice, but his accounts of himself and his doings were 
very vague. She wrote to him herself frequently, 
and strove, by the affection expressed in her letters, 
and by the accounts she gave of their pleasant home, 
and their little Violet’s growing intelligence, to win 
him to return. But alas! Claude was among those, 
the spell of whose presence was more potent than 
his wife’s gentle attractions. 

It is true, that when he received Hetty’s letters, 
he would make a resolve within himself to go home 
immediately ; but ere he had carried that resolution 
into effect, he was enticed away again, by some of 
his wild companions, into some gay scene of plea- 
sure or dissipation, and home, and those he ought 
to have loved so dearly, were forgotten. 

Laura and Mrs. Melville were very kind to Hetty 
during her husband’s absence, and frequently came 
24 


284 (trkatnkss in Little Things. 

over to see her. The old gentleman placed a sum 
of money in his daughter-in-law’s hands, saying that 
it was a present for his little grandchild. Hetty 
understood, and felt the delicacy of the intention — 
and the help came not inopportunely, for Claude 
had sent her no means, and there was no money left 
in the bank. Hetty strove to appear cheerful, but 
she drooped and drooped, till she became perfectly 
ill and haggard. She could not but be uneasy about 
Claude. Old Mr. Grey was away from New York 
attending some meeting of the Presbytery in one of 
the Western States, and there was no one to look 
for her husband and remonstrate with him as before. 
One evening, however, when Walter and Beatrice 
had walked over from Oakwood, the former, seeing 
his sister-in-law’s unhappiness, offered to go himself 
to New York and try to bring Claude home, or at 
least, to see what he intended to do — for it was im- 
possible to allow matters to go on as they were. 

Hetty thanked him, poor thing! with eagerness 
and warmth ; and he set off the following day with 
many anxious prayers on the part of the anxious 
wife, whose truant husband he was in search of. 


■ ^ V '5’ . v;- ; .1 ■ 

-Vr :,,'T 

- r--‘ >■•..- ^..,‘ :"•' 


CHAPTER XIII.^ • 

" “ 0 ! melancholy, linger here awhile ! 

0 ! music, music, breathe despondingly ! 

01 echo, echo, from some somber isle 
, ^ Unknown, lethean, sigh to us— O, sigh !” — K eats. 

“ Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining. 

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 

Thy fate is the common fate of all. 

Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreary.” 

Longfellow. 

The shades of evening have fallen thickly around 
the city of New York, but in the streets the gloom 
is dispelled by thousands of brilliant lamps. Be- 
neath the light of these lamps, too, thousands are 
hurrying along — all bent, more or less eagerly, on 
some purpose, good or bad. 

If we turn aside from this bustling throng, and 
go up that flight of steps on the left-hand side of 
that small alley, we shall come to a room, the en- 
trance to which is a green baize door, studded with 
brass nails. Entering this room, we hear the voices 
of men in angry altercation. Let us not turn aside 

disgusted, as we well might be, for among those 

( 585 ) . ‘ 


Greatness in Liitle Things. 


2Si> 

voices, methinks there are some that strike familiarly 
on the ear. Let us look in. 


“How dare you interfere, sir!” shouted a man, 
in a loud, angry tone of voice, as he leaned across the 
table where he and another man had been playing 
some game of chance. “ I say again, sir, who asked 
you to come and interfere with our game 

The person whom he addressed, was a tall, gentle- 
manly, and very prepossessing-looking young man, 
whose quiet demeanor and gentlemanly bearing, 
seemed to bespeak him no frequenter of such haunts 
as that we see him in at present. This was, as our 
readers may guess, Walter Grey, who now stood with 
his hand on Claude Melville’s shoulder, earnestly 
and affectionately entreating him to leave off play- 
ing, and come homo with him to old Mr. Grey’s 
house in street. 

Claude was flushed and excited with play, for he 
had, this evening, happened to win a considerable 
sum of money from his opponent — and it was the 
latter who was now angrily addressing Walter, en- 
raged at the game being interfered with, particu- 
larly at the present crisis, when the luck was against 
him. 

“You’re a mean fellow, Melville, to leave ofl‘ 
playing just now, after you ’ve been winning from 


The Game[jng jSALOON. 287 

me ; at least, give me a chance of winning it back 
again. Come on !’■ 

Claude hesitated, but Walter turned to the 
speaker, and said : 

“You need not mind about the money, sir, I 
know Mr. Melville will not think of insisting on its 
being paid, if you do not think it fair; but he is 
obliged to leave here now, his presence being posi- 
tively required elsewhere.” 

“ Well ! then, we ’ll cry quits. Downing,” said 
Claude, who stood by half angry, and half ashamed ; 
but yet, for the time, so much under Walter’s influ- 
ence as to rely upon him for assistance and advice. 

“Indeed, I’ll do no such thing!” said the other 
man, angrily ; “ fair play’s fair play. Come on now, 
and let ’s have it out — O ! you won’t, won’t you !” 
said he, in tones of increasing anger, as he saw 
Walter take Claude’s arm to lead him away; “then, 
I can tell you, that I think you ’re a couple of mean 
sneaks, and that it’s all a plot, your going away 
at all. Take that for your pains 1” and firing a 
revolver as he spoke, the report of the piece sounded 
through the gambling-saloon. 

Walter fell forward, though the shot had been 
intended for Claude. 

The ball had entered below the right shoulder 
and passed out between the ribs. Claude gave a 
cry of horror ai)d agony, aqd threw himself on his 


288 Greatness in Little Things 

knees by^his brother-in-law, deadly pale. A crowd 
soon collected round them, and the wounded man 
was gently carried on a litter to his father’s house. 

Claude saw him to the door, and then ran as 
quickly as possible for a surgeon, whom he dis- 
patched to attend on the patient, and then slunk 
away himself, ashamed to be seen by any one he 
knew, for he felt that he had, though inadvertently, 
it is true, been the cause of the accident. As we 
have before said, old Mr. Grey was from home. 
The agonizing terror and fear of his poor wife, when 
she saw her only son brought to her door, late at 
night, desperately wounded, and escorted only by a 
low mob, may better be imagined than described. 
She knew, however, that Walter had been in search 
of Claude Melville, and she intuitively suspected 
that the accident had some connection with him. 

From the men who carried him, however, she 
could learn nothing but a very confused account; 
and indeed there was not much time for delay — the 
care of the sufferer claiming her attention too en- 
tirely to admit of further inquiry. 

Walter had swooned as they were bringing him 
along the street, and it was not till after he had been 
laid on his mother’s bed, and the surgeon had 
arrived, that he recovered his consciousness. 

The surgeon gave it as his opinion that there was 
no immediate danger to be apprehended from the 


Walter’s Wound. 


289 


wound, but old Mrs. Grey resolved on instantly 
dispatching a messenger for Beatrice, telling her 
that her husband had met with an accident, but that 
she must not frighten herself unnecessarily, for that 
indeed there seemed no cause for alarm. No men- 
tion was made of Claude Melville in the note, for 
of him Mrs. Grey knew nothing. 

When did a loving wife, in spite of all warnings 
to the contrary, ever receive tidings of an accident 
having happened to a beloved husband, without 
magnifying the danger to the utmost in her own 
mind, and without being ready to believe the worst 
from the earliest moment ? Beatrice nearly fainted 
when she first received the note. She fancied she 
should never again see Walter alive, but grief de- 
prived her not of the power of action, and with a 
death-like pallor on her countenance, she moved 
around the house to give the necessary orders pre- 
vious to her departure for New York. 

She at first concluded not to let Hetty know what 
she had heard, but considering, afterward, that her 
sister would be sure to find out she was from home, 
she dispatched Francis to the farm with a note, 
stating what she had heard from her mother-in-law, 
and begging Hetty to come over to Oakwood as 
often as she could, so as to keep an eye on the child- 
ren and household. 

When Beatrice arrived in New York, Walter was 


290 Greatness in Little Things. 

already considerably better; and although yet ex- 
ceedingly weak, it was not many days before he was 
able to be moved, by easy stages, to his own home. 
Of Claude, however, alas 1 no news could be gained 
before they left, and Beatrice, unhappy though she 
was about her own husband, was not unmindful of 
her sister’s trouble, and really dreaded meeting her 
on their return, without having some tidings to 
communicate respecting Claude. 

O ! with what a death-like, agonized expression 
of countenance did poor Hetty receive her sister and 
Walter, as she stood in the hall at Oakwood await- 
ing their arrival. Too much overcome to speak, 
or even to weep, she stood clasping her baby in her 
arms, with her lips parted, as if in mute suppli- 
cation, and yet not daring to venture an inquiry. 
She remained thus, intently gazing, while Socrates 
and another servant lifted Walter from the carriage 
and bore him gently up-stairs. She could only press 
Beatrice’s hand, and say, in an agonized whisper : 

“ O ! Bee, Bee, do tell me, for mercy’s sake, 
where Claude is ? O ! my husband, my husband.” 

“ I know not, dear Hetty, I know not — would to 
God I did,” was her sister’s reply. 

‘‘ Once more, dear Bee, only tell me he did not 
do this ; only tell me he did not !” 

“No, indeed, dear Hetty, Walter says this was 
an accident,” said Beatrice ; “ do not, dear sister, 


Walter’s Wound. 


291 


distress yourself thus. Walter is thought to be out 
of danger, and I dare say Claude will soon be 
home, for Walter saw him, and told him how anx- 
ious you were for his coming.” 

Hetty sank down on a chair. She breathed more 
freely, and refreshing tears rolled down her cheeks. 

“ Do not delay here, dear Bee, I am better now, 
thank God ; but oh ! to think that I should have 
been the cause of Walter’s going. Yet I am so 
thankful to learn that it was not Claude who hurt 
him. O 1 I long to hear all about it from him, when 
he is strong enough to tell me.” 

Beatrice again kissed her sister, and then ran up- 
stairs to her sick husband, who, indeed, now claimed 
all her care and attention. 

Poor Hetty felt that she could delay no longer at 
Oak wood, for might not Claude return at any 
moment ? 

As she went along, under the green hedgerows 
and 'through the meadows, toward the farm, the 
summer air blew sweetly and pleasantly upon her, 
and her little Yiolet was smiling and cooing in 
her arms: but what a heavy heart had that young 
mother! what would she not have given to know 
where her husband was? Why was he not with 
her to enjoy this pleasant summer’s eve ? — oh, why I 

She thought the rooms at home looked even more 
desolate than usual, that evening; and she felt 
25 


292 Greatness in Little Things. 

quite oppressed with a sense of utter loneliness. 
Bow many things about the homestead looked as if 
they wanted setting in order— and she had no 
money to pay for the necessary labor. The two or 
three farm-servants who had been kept on, answered 
her, she thought, less respectfully than usual now, 
and she fancied it was because they knew she was 
poor. Having undressed her little one, and put 
her to sleep, for she had been obliged to dismiss her 
nurse, (the wages being an expense she was quite 
unable to meet) she fetched a candle and sat down 
in her room by little Tiolet’s cot, and opened her 
Bible to read. The first words which met her eyes 
were these: “ Thou art our refuge and strength, a 
very j>resent help in time of trouhleP Oh ! sweet 
and blessed promise for the afflicted ! Tears came 
into Hetty’s eyes as she read them, and kneeling 
down, she prayed, oh ! how earnestly, that the Lord 
would indeed be her help in this her trouble, and 
grant that she might receive some tidings of him 
whom she still loved so fondly. 

Scarcely had she risen from her knees, when she 
heard horse’s hoofs rattling up the road to the 
house. Is it ? can it be Claude ! thought she ; and 
as the idea thrilled through her, it almost deprived 
her of the power of action— she was so afraid lest 
it might not indeed be he. 


Claude’s Keturn. 


293 


Another minute, and there was a quick knock at 
the door. She rushed down the stairs, for she 
would not that any one else should he the first to 
receive him, if it were indeed Claude. 

In another moment, she was in her husband’s 
arms. 

“ Oh ! Claude, Claude ! how could you stay from 
me so long ? Thank God you ’re come at last !” 
was all she could utter. 

“Oh wife! — oh Hetty! — I’m a miserable man; 
I don’t deserve to be welcomed in this man- 
ner — ” 

Another kiss was his wife’s only reply, and then 
taking him by the hand, she led him gently up- 
stairs, to the room where their sleeping infant lay. 

Claude stooped down and kissed little Yiolet, and 
a shade passed over his countenance, and his con- 
science twinged sharply as he did so, for he felt 
what an attraction home ought to have been to him. 

Hetty now lit another candle, and then only did 
she observe how very miserable her husband’s ap- 
pearance was. 

He looked haggard and thin, and his hand shook 
from the efiects of the intemperate life he had been 
leading. He looked ten years older than when she 
saw him last ! 

Turning now to his wife, and looking her earn- 
estly in the face, Claude said : 


294 Greatness in Litile Things. 

“Hetty, if you’ve any pity for me, only tell me 
good news of Walter. What of him ? Is he alive 
yet ? — ^for God’s sake don’t tell me he ’s not I” 

“ He is ! he is ! dear Claude ; Beatrice says he is 
much better: he came down from New York to 
Oak wood, this afternoon — and surely if he had been 
so very ill, he could not have been moved.” 

“ I did not do it, Hetty-^I did not do it,” said 
Claude, in a tone of misery, as he sat down on a 
chair, and covered his face with his hands ; “ God 
knows I wouldn’t have injured a hair of his head I— 
it was that rascal Downing.” Oh ! that I had never 
met him I “I shall never be able to look Beatrice 
in the face again— she will think all was my fault — ” 
“ 0 ! indeed, indeed, Claude ! you do my sister 
injustice. I am sure she is the very last person to 
harbor you any ilbwill; so pray do not think 
that I” 

“ O ! what an unhappy brute I am !” groaned 
Claude, “I wish I’d never left home. You don’t 
know what I’ve suffered during the last two or 
three days, thinking that Walter might be dead! I 
have been an infatuated, foolish wretch 1” 

“Dear husband, you are at home now — let us 
forget the past. I am sure I will never reproach 
you with it — and they all — ^your father, and Laura, 
and Walter, too, will be so glad to hear you are 
come 1” 


Claude’s IIeturn. 


a95 

“Well! then, I’m determined they shan’t know 
it yet,” said Claude, almost fiercely; “1 am not in 
the humor to brook reproaches from any one — my 
own are as much as I can bear ! Don’t you say a 
word about my being here till I tell you. I ’m not 
well, and I want to stop quietly with you ; and I ’m 
not going to be plagued with visits from any one.” 

“ My poor, poor Claude !” said Hetty, and lean- 
ing over her husband, from behind his chair, she 
laid her hand on his head and kissed his forehead — 
a tear falling from her eye and dropping on to his 
cheek as she did so. 

Claude started — “ Hetty, don’t cry 1 I can’t bear 
it — indeed I can’t! I’m not good enough to be 
loved by you ! I feel I am not!” 

“Claude, love! do not talk so — nothing can 
change my love — you are always my own dear hus- 
band !” 

“ God forgive me, wife, for all my unkindness 
toward you — oh ! how undeserved has it been !” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


“ At every motion of our breath, 

- ' Life trembles on the brink of death ; 

A taper’s flame, that upward turns, ^ 

While downward to the dust it burns.” 

Montgomery. 

“ Affliction then is ours. 

We are the trees whom shaking fastens more ; 

While blust’ring winds destroy the wanton bowers, 

And ruffle all their curious knots and store. 

• > 
My God ! so temper joy and woe. 

That thy bright beams may tame thy bow.” 

" George Herbert. 

• It was with a comparatively light heart, that 
Hetty descended the staircase the following morn- 
ing, leaving Claude, wearied with want of rest, 
lying fast asleep. Happy she could not exactly be, 
for he looked both ill and wretched, and she was 
anxious, too, about W alter ; but yet, thankfulness for 
her husband’s return, was her predominant feeling, 
and with her usual sanguineness of disposition, the 
hope of bright future days flitted through her mind. 

It was not very early — much later, indeed, than 
her usual hour of rising ; but Claude looked so worn 

out, that she had feared disturbing him earlier 

'( 296 ) 


Mrs. Grant. 


297 


Having now dressed little Yiolet in another room, 
she came softly down stairs, and depositing her little 
charge on a large, soft mat in the breakfast-room, 
she began to arrange cups and saucers, and make 
other preparations for the morning meal. 

While she was thus engaged, Susan, the dairy- 
maid, came into the room and said : “ If you please. 
Ma’am, Mrs. Grey’s cook was over this morning 
afore seven o’clock for them three pounds of butter 
we promised her. She said she heard that Mr. 
Grey was mighty weak to-day ; that he hadn’t slept 
very well last night. I told her as how Mr. Melville 
came home last night, tho’ I didn’t know that 
myself till this morning, when old Dennis told me 
that Mr. Melville left the horse with him at the 
stable.” 

It ’s of no use Claude’s thinking to hide his hav- 
ing come home then, thought Hetty ; I hope he will 
not be angry, at anyrate it cannot be helped. 

It was about noon the same day — the first day of 
Claude’s return — when two figures, those of an 
elderly lady and a little boy, were seen approaching 
the farm. 

Hetty was standing at the window with Claude, 
when she suddenly exclaimed : 

“ Why, Claude, that looks very much like Aunt 
Louisa coming up the hill with little Clement ! why 
where can she have sprung from ?” 


298 Greatness in Little Things. 

“Wherever it may be, I shan’t stay to encounter 
her,” said Claude ; “make any excuse you like for 
me, Hetty. A lecture from her is what I never 
could stand in my best days.” So saying, he went 
quickly up-stairs, and locked himself into his room. 

It was indeed Mrs. Grant, who had arrived from 
Hew York only that morning. She had heard of 
Walter’s accident from his mother, and she had im- 
mediately set off for Oak wood, to see if she could 
be of any service to Beatrice in the nursing line. 

Though still occasionally somewhat caustic and 
severe, time had blunted some of the sharp edges 
in her character, and she could really be a most 
useful person when she chose. She had taken a 
great fancy to Beatrice’s little ones, who, she said, 
were almost the only well brought up children she 
knew ; so that now her appearance at Oakwood was 
hailed by Beatrice with pleasure, for she knew that 
Aunt Louisa might safely be intrusted with nursery 
cares, and Walter was now so ill as to claim all her 
own time and attention. 

The tidings of Claude’s arrival, conveyed to Oak- 
wood by the cook that morning, had filled both Bea- 
trice and her husband with thankfulness, and Aunt 
Louisa had not been long in the house before Bea- 
trice begged her to go over to the farm, and bring 
some tidings both of Claude and Hetty. 

“Well, Hetty, love, so you see I ’ve come down to 


Mrs. Grant. 


399 


take care of you all,” exclaimed Mrs. Grant, as she en- 
tered the room. ‘‘ Such doings ! dear me, dear me !” 

“ I am sure dear Bee must be very glad to see 
you, Aunt,” said Hetty, kissing her affectionately ; 
“poor thing! this is indeed a trial for her. Cle- 
ment, love, come and kiss Aunt Hetty 1 There, sit 
on my knee ; there ’s room for you now, for little 
Yiolet is fast asleep.” 

“ Where ’s uncle Claude, Aunty ? Mamma said 
he was come home ! You won’t be unhappy any 
more now, will you ?” 

Hetty kissed the little fellow’s rosy cheek, and 
said, in a hesitating voice, (for she felt that her 
aunt’s eyes were fixed upon her) : 

“ Uncle Claude is not very well to-day, Clemmy ; 
he is up-stairs, but you shall see him another time. 
Suppose you go out and feed the rabbits ? you may 
if you like ; and ask Susan to gather you some let- 
tuce — I think she is in the kitchen.” 

“Do tell me what you think of Walter, Aunt?” said 
Hetty, when Clement had left the room ; “ we did 
not hear a very good account of him this morning ?” 

“ Well, it’s my opinion that he won’t be well for 
a long time,” said Mrs. Grant, shortly ; “no wonder, 
poor fellow 1 with that wound it ’s a mercy his life 
was spared.” 

“ It is indeed. Aunt, we have all great cause for 
thankfulness,” said Hetty, gently. 


300 Greatness in Liitle Things. 

“ Fray, why does your husband shut himself up, 
and not come down to see me ? 1 came over here 

on purpose to see how you both were, and it will 
seem very queer, when I go back, to say that I have 
not seen Claude.” 

“ I am afraid you must excuse him. Aunt. I am 
very sorry ; poor fellow ! he has been greatly cut up 
about that affair of poor dear Walter’s getting 
hurt.” 

'‘'‘Poor fellow^ indeed i I ’m sure I don’t pity 
him ; what business had he to be away at all ? The 
way he ’s been going on lately, I ’m sure, he deserves 
to be worried, and well punished too.” 

“Please, please, Aunt, don’t speak in that way,” 
said Hetty, in a tone of distress ; “ w^e cannot recall 
the past, and I cannot bear to hear any one talk 
against him. I feel too glad to have him safe home 
again.” 

“Ah! indeed!” said her aunt, shaking her head, 
“ little comfort he ’s been to you. He ought to be 
ashamed of himself, that ’s what I know. But you 
knew what he was before you married him, child, 
so you ’ve brought it on yourself.” 

“ Aunt Louisa !” said Hetty, and she colored 
with anger as she spoke, “ I must request of you not 
to speak in that way. I won't listen to it! What- 
ever Claude may have been, or whatever he has 
done, he is my husband, whom I dearly love ; and 


Litple Violet. 


301 


I will suffer no one to abuse him before my face ; 
“ and she rose as she spoke, and walked over to the 
cot to take up her baby, who was now awake.” 

“Well, well, child ! come, don’t be offended. I 
only told you what I thought ; and if you don’t like 
to hear it, why we ’ll change the subject : here at 
least, is something we can agree about,” and Mrs. 
Grant held out her arms for little Violet to come to 
her. “ What a lovely baby ; why it ’s not much 
like you, Hetty ; it ’s more like what Beatrice was 
when a child ; like your mother indeed : yes, she’s 
the image of your poor mother — the same soft gray- 
blue eyes — ” 

“ I ’m so glad of that,” said Hetty ; “ and I should 
wish her to be as like dear Bee as possible ; I only 
hope she may be as good. She is a little darling 
now, and a great amusement to me — ” 

“ By-the-by, my dear,” said her aunt, “ I hear 
Laura Melville is going to be married ; to whom 
is it?” 

“To a friend of her brother William’s,” replied 
Hetty; “another New York barrister — a Mr. 
Herbert. I met him at Springfield once or twice, 
last year, and again about three months ago ; he 
seemed a gentlemanly, well-informed man, but I 
have not seen much of him. Indeed, what I have 
heard about him, has been principally from Laura, 
who often comes over here to sit with me in the 


302 Greatness in Little Things. 

morning, when her father is busy in his library or 
overlooking the estate—” 

“ How do Laura and her father get on together, 
now ?” 

“ Oh I very well indeed ; she has become his 
constant companion since her poor mother’s death, 
and it seems her principal aim to make hini happy, 
and to endeavor to compensate, as much as possible, 
for the great loss he has sustained. He will miss 
• her sadly, poor man : I really can hardly think what 
he will do without her, when she is married. 
Laura is not comfortable about it herself, and the 
wedding has, in consequence, been indefinitely 
postponed, till some plan can be decided upon. 
Old Mrs. Grey, (Walter’s mother, you know), is a 
relation of theirs ; and she has a widowed sister, 
who will probably stay with him part of the time ; 
but, I believe, nothing is settled yet. Let me take 
baby. Aunt ; she is too heavy for you.” 

“ Hot at all, my dear ; but let us go into the 
garden, and look for Clement; I must be going 
back to Oak wood, for Beatrice may want me. 
How ever are you going to manage about this farm, 
Hetty ?” continued Mrs. Grant, as they went down 
the path leading to the rabbit-hutches ; why it 
looks shamefully neglected, and the garden is one 
mass of weeds !” 

Hetty winced, but replied : 


A Friend in Need. 


303 


“ I cannot tell, indeed, Aunt ; I hope everything 
will be set to rights, now Claude is come — ” 

“Tut 1 set to rights, indeed,” muttered Mrs. 
Grant ; “ they ought never to have got in this state 
Well, well, my dear, I know the state of things, as 
well as you can tell me. Look here now, Hetty, I 
thought this hundred dollars might be useful to you 
just now, so I brought it as a little present from 
me, if you will accept it. Come now, you must 
not refuse me. Of what use is it to an old woman 
like me ! Beside, my dear, if you began asking 
for money just now, for household necessaries, who 
knows but what that-^thaWbut that Claude might 
be off to New York again.” 

“ Aunt Ijoulsa,” said Hetty, as she threw her 
arms round her neck, and kissed her warmly, “ this 
is indeed, kind and thoughtful of you. I shall 
make no scruples of false delicacy in accepting it. 
God bless you, Aunt— ‘ a friend in need is a friend 
indeed.’ ’• 


It was not that Walter Grey was very ill — ^no, 
not very ill ; that is to say, there were no symptoms 
which might cause alarm, even in the breast of an 
anxious wife ; but it was long, very long, before he 
regained his health and strength, and many weeks 
elapsed before the happy evening when, he was 


304 Greatness in Little Things. 

able to walk round the garden, leaning on Beatrice’s 
arm, with his children running around him in merry 
glee, delighted at seeing dear Papa out again. 

As the hot sun, however, abated somewhat of the 
intensity of its rays, and the pleasant soft days of 
autumn began to appear, his strength came back, 
slowly but surely, although it was long before he was 
otherwise than an invalid. 

During Walter’s illness, another doctor had settled 
in Mill Town, and although, even now, there were 
some among his old patients, who came to Oakwood 
occasionally to consult him, yet it was impossible 
that his old practice could be kept up. He and 
Beatrice were not poor, for his profession had 
hitherto been quite suiB&cient for the support of the 
family ; and, with the exception of a small sum ex- 
pended on their first commencing housekeeping, 
Beatrice’s fortune remained almost untouched in the 
bank at New York, where it had been lodged by her 
father, and the accumulated interest during the five 
years of their marriage, had increased this little 
capital considerably. It is true that, at several dif- 
ferent times, Beatrice had, from her own resources, 
assisted Hetty during the past year, when in dis- 
tress, while Claude was in New York ; but it was 
but very trifiing sums that Hetty could be prevailed 
upon to accept, for it was very galling to her. 


Claude’s Fickleness. 305 

remembering her sister’s advice at the time of her 
marriage, to feel that she was now in any way de- 
pendent on her. 

It seemed, indeed, as though poor Hetty’s life 
were to be cloudy in its morning — we can only 
hope that its noonday and eve will be less shad- 
owy. Claude had become quite disgusted with the 
aspect of affairs at the farm. He was too much of 
a fine gentleman, and had far too little energy, to 
set manfully to work and make the best of existing 
circumstances. Difficulties, which to some minds 
would have appeared mere trifies, completely floored 
him. He threatened to give up the whole concern 
altogether, and it was only his father’s advice, and 
his wife’s urgerd; entreaty, which induced him to 
hold on a little longer. It was some time after he 
returned home, before he would go to Oakwood to 
see Walter and Beatrice — but we need not say that 
he was kindly received — that he was sure to be, if 
but for his wife’s sake alone. 

It was one autumn morning, or perhaps, we could 
scarcely have called it autumn — it was more, the 
last sweet leave-taking of summer — one of those 
lovely September days when, without having lost 
the freshness of summer, the landscape seemed 
almost unconsciously and imperceptibly to remind 
one of the coming fall. A light gray mist hung 
over the rich valley, in which lay Oakwood-— the 


306 Greatness in Little Things. 

farm, and Springfield — such a mist as only to pro- 
mise a bright and glorious noon, and serving but to 
lend new beauties to the scene. 

Tired as Claude was with the minutiae and drudg- 
ing of a farm life, yet this lovely morning offered 
him plenty of attractions in the sporting way, for he 
was a good shot, and there was nothing he liked 
better than to ramble over the farm with his gun in 
his hand, with his favorite dog. Hector. 

Hetty was to go over to Oakwood , and spend the 
day with her sisler ; glad, indeed, to have this 
opportunity of a quiet chat with her; and Claude 
was to come there to supper at six, after his day’s 
sport, and take her and little Yiolet home. 

Walter was, of course, at home; he was too much 
of an invalid to walk about, and he now spent a 
great deal of time in reading-^ for Beatrice was 
necessarily a good deal occupied with the children, 
and Clement was now old enough to have regular 
lessons every morning. Aunt Louisa had returned 
to Hew York some time before, and Beatrice was 
really sorry to part with her, she had been so kind 
and useful during Walter’s illness^ but the good 
lady had peculiar ideas about not out-staying her 
welcome, and she could not be prevailed upon to 
remain longer. . 

Laura Melville came in, in the course of the morn- 
ing, and as the day was so fine and warm, she and 


The Absent Si-oktsman. 307 

Beatrice, and Hetty took their work and sat under 
a large tree in the garden, chatting merrily and 
happily together, while the children played on the 
mossy lawn beside them. When Francis came 
home from school, at four o’clock, they all set off for 
a pleasant walk to Springfield, to see if Mr. Melville 
could not be prevailed upon to come back with them 
to supper at Oak wood. 

It was about two hours after this that they were 
again all assembled on the lawn, waiting for the 
absent sportsman. They were to have a substantial 
meal, a sort of union of tea and supper, as Claude 
had not been home to dinner. Six o’clock was the 
appointed time for meeting, and it was now half- 
past, and it was already getting quite dusk, for the 
shortening days bespoke the coming fall. At last 
they settled to wait no longer — that something must 
have delayed Claude, and that he would come in 
before they had finished ; he was a very uncertain 
person in his movements at all times, so that his 
not being punctual caused them no great uneasiness. 
But before seven o’clock Hetty began to get fidgety, 
and to go uneasily backward and forward from the 
dining-room to the hall door, to listen for liis foot- 
steps. But no! no sound disturbed the evening air; 
all was still and silent as death. Half-past seven — 
a quarter to eight ! She could bear it no longer, and 
Beatrice and her husband and Mr. Melville, all began 
26 


308 Grkatnkss in Littlk Things. 

to feel anxious too; but they thought that Claude 
must have become too tired, or that he had got wet 
in some swampy ground and gone home ; still it 
was strange that he sent no message to Hetty. 

“If he does not come before ten minutes,” said 
old Mr. Melville, “ I shall start for the farm myself 
and see what has become of him.” 

But before ten minutes had elapsed there came 
a loud ring at the front-door bell. The color lel't 
Hetty’s face, for she knew Claude would have walked 
in without ringing. In another moment Socrates 
came to the door and told Walter that some one 
wished to speak with him. Hetty gave a sigh of 
hope and relief, for she thought that very likely it 
might be only some one come to Walter for medical 
advice. 

When Walter Grey- went out into the hall, he saw 
old Dennis, the servant at the farm, standing look- 
ing rather frightened and uneasy — but with his finger 
on his lips as though to enjoin silence. 

“ If ye plase, sir,” said he, in a whisper, “ is the 
master here?” 

“ No, indeed, Dennis ; we have been expecting 
him these two hours. He was to have come to take 
Mrs. Melville home after he had done shooting.” 

“ Faith and then, yer honor, I’m afeard intirely 
there’s something amiss. About an hour ago— just 
at dusk Hector came home, looking quite oneasy 


Tiik Absent Stoktsman. 


309 


like ; and he would not go into his kennel for a long 
time, but lay down and howled and howled, and 
seemed as if he wanted us to foller him somewheres, 
the crathur ! Me and the t’others was quite scared 
intirely, and I thought may-be I’d better come over 
here and see if the master was here or no.” 

Walter listened breathlessly to Dennis’ words. 
Something surely must have happened to Claude or 
the dog would not have gone home alone. He 
scarcely knew what to do ; but he at last ^put his 
head in at the dining-room door and called old Mr. 
Melville out, that he might consult with him. 

Hetty’s fears were now thoroughly aroused. What 
could Walter want with her father-in-law unless 
something were the matter with Claude ? Quick as 
thought she rushed into the haU, and seizing Wal- 
ter’s arm, she said : 

“ Oh ! Walter, Walter ! for heaven’s sake tell me 
what’s the matter ! Has Dennis brought any news 
of Claude ?” 

“Ho, indeed, ma’am,” said the old man; “only 
Hector’s come home, and I thought may-be the 
master might ha’ got into some fix somewheres 
on, the farm; anyhow we had best go and see, I 
take it.” 

Hetty gave a suppressed scream, and turned 
deadly pale. “Yes, yes,” she gasped, “ we will go 
aud look for him.” 


310 Greatness in Little Things. 

“ My dear child,” said old Mr. Melville, tenderly, 
“you cannot possibly come with us; see how dark 
the night is, and we may have miles to walk. Con- 
trol yourself and stay with Beatrice. Do, for your 
child’s sake. God help you and comfort you. Come, 
Walter, let’s be off — I’m ready; but dear me, how 
are you to walk ? you are too weak to go far.” 

“ The horse will be saddled in a minute — I must 
go,” replied Walter. “ Tell Socrates to come too, 
Dennis, and to bring a lantern with him. By-the- 
by, did you hear your master say, this morning, what 
part of the farm he was going to shoot over ?” 

“ Kever a one o’ me knows nothing at all about 
it, sir, except that when he started he set off on the 
road toward Beech wood, right a’ top o’ the hill.” 

“ Let us go to the farm and fetch Hector first,” 
said old Mr. Melville ; “ he will be sure to lead us 
in the right way to where he left his master — a dog’s 
sagacity can always be trusted in these matters.” 

They accordingly set off — Walter riding slowly 
on horseback, while the others walked by his side. 
As they neared the farm, they could hear the long, 
deep, melancholy howl of Hector, filling the night- 
air with its mournful sounds. 

“Ah ! sirs,” said old Dennis, sighing; “ sure an’ 
when a dog howls like o’ that, there ’ll be a death 
in the family. I always heerd that ever since I was 
a little spalpeen o’ a boy.” 


Hector’s Sagacity. 


311 


Walter and Mr. Melville answered not. They 
were, themselves, filled with gloomy forebodings — 
and little as they might, in a calmer hour, give 
credence to old Dennis’ superstition, yet certain it is 
that the dismal sounds increased the vague terror 
of impending evil which filled their minds. 

To unloose Hector was but the work of a moment, 
and the faithful animal seemed as though he under- 
stood wherefore they had fetched him, for with a 
low, sharp whine, he seized the skirt of Mr. Mel- 
ville’s coat, then walked off in a northerly direction, 
then returned, and again seizing the coat, he seemed, 
by these mute gestures, to invite them to follow 
him. 

Straight on, in a north-easterly direction, quite 
away from both Oak wood and Springfield, did Hec- 
tor pursue the track of his master’s footsteps. Oh ! 
how gloomy and melancholy it was I It was not a 
cold night, but the wind had changed, and it now 
came sighing and breathing mournfully through the 
tall trees, while a few drops of rain falling now and 
again, threatened a shower. 

It was dark, too, for the heavens had become 
overspread with clouds, and it was with difficulty 
that Hector’s spotted black and white form could be 
descried as he ran on before them — only stopping 
ever and anon to see if they were following. On, 
on, on, for nearly two miles, did they walk in gloomy 


312 Greatness in Little Things. 

silence, hoping every moment that the dog would 
stop, and yet having an almost undefined dread of 
his doing so, lest their worst fears should be real- 
ized. 

It was in a quiet, shady glen, underneath a large 
tree, that Hector suddenly stopped short, and after 
smelling around him, he gave one long, piercing 
howl, and crouched down on the ground beside some 
object which lay there. 

Walter dismounted in an instant, and seizing the 
lantern from Socrates, he hurriedly approached the 
spot. Oh ! what a sight met his eye ; it blanched 
his eheek with terror, and made his hand tremble as 
he gazed. There lay poor Claude, cold and dead, 
with his gun by his side, and a fearful wound in 
his head. 

Mr. Melville gave a cry of horror and agony, and 
threw himself on his knees beside the corpse, ex- 
claiming : 

“Oh ! my son, my son !” 

“Oh! Hetty, poor, poor girl! How will she bear 
this ?” groaned Walter. 

At that moment a flash of lightning shot through 
the branches of the trees, and illumined, for an in- 
stant, the face of the dead. 

His ramrod lay by his side, and it was evident 
from the position in which he was found, and from 
the direction the shot had taken, shattering his jaw, 


Claude’s Death. 


313 


and going upward to the temple, that it was in 
charging his gun, while one barrel was loaded, that 
the accident had occurred. 

W alter was too weak to be able to assist in carry- 
ing poor Claude’s remains, and Socrates and Dennis 
were both old men and feeble, so he resolved to ride 
on to a cottage, distant only about a quarter of a 
mile from the spot, and endeavor to procure help. 

It was not very long before he returned with two 
men, who had taken a door off its hinges and kindly 
volunteered to carry the body. 

Gloomily and sadly that little procession wended 
its way to the farm. 

The poor father walked last, his head bowed 
down with grief, and his arms folded, heedless of 
the rain which now pelted pitilessly against them ; 
and indeed, of aught save the lifeless form of his 
once handsome boy. The light of a candle was 
seen in the kitchen window as they approached the 
house, for the two women-servants, Susan and old 
Jane, were sitting up in a state of great fear and 
alarm, awaiting the return of some members of the 
household. 

Walter rode on to prepare them for what was 
coming. Susan screamed and fainted, but Jane, 
although trembling in every limb, yet retained suf- 
ficient command of herself to go along the passage 
to the front-door with Walter, and then light the 


314 Greatness in Little Things. 

men up-stairs, where they deposited poor Claude’s 
lifeless form on the bed. 

Ah ! little did poor Hetty think, when she rose 
that morning, what it was that would that night be 
laid there, so cold, and stiff, and inanimate. 

Leaving old Dennis at the farm, and bidding old 
Jane do what was necessary toward washing and 
dressing the corpse, Walter and Mr. Melville pro- 
ceeded toward Oakwood, endeavoring to think how 
they might best break the news to the poor young 
wife. 

Such grief as this is too deep, too tender, and 
sacred to be described. What such a loss must be, 
coming so suddenly and unexpectedly, can better be 
imagined than recorded. Poor Hetty ! it was, in- 
deed, a blow — sharp and lacerating to her tender 
heart. 

She went over to the farm with Walter, in the 
buggy next morning, at her own request, that she 
might gaze once more on the face of him who had 
been so dear, and then returned to Oakwood, that 
she might be with her sister — and it was many, 
many days before she could trust herself to re-enter 
the walls of her old home again, where everything 
so painfully reminded her of her loss. 


CHAPTER XV. 


Farewell 1 and may friendship, affection and love, 

Surround thee through life with their holiest flowers; 

And the peace that can only descend from above. 

Shed its sunshine around thee, and hallow thy hours I 

Four years Lave again rolled away! and when 
we turn to look at our friends we shall see that with 
them time has also wrought its accustomed changes. 

In the rooms of the house at Oakwood fresh faces 
were seen, for Walter Grey and his family had long 
since left, and were now all residing at Mow Farm. 

The long sickness which ensued after Walter was 
wounded in Hew York, had determined him on 
retiring from the more active duties of his profes- 
sion, and living a quiet life in the country. Just at 
this time, as we have seen, came poor Claude Mel- 
ville’s sad death, and as his young widow was not 
able to undertake the management of the farm, 
even if she had had the means to do so, Walter and 
Beatrice resolved on taking it off her hands, and 
accordingly purchased the place within three or four 
months of the time of the accident. 

Laura Melville was married a few days before they 

27 ( 315 ) 


816 Greatness in Little Things. 

removed, and poor Hetty, with her little daughter, 
went to live with her father-in-law, at his own 
urgent request. 

At the time we are now speaking of, little Yiolet 
had grown into a lovely child of three years old ; 
and she might often be seen wandering about the 
garden and meadows of Springfield for hours to- 
gether, with her grandfather, to whom she was de- 
votedly attached — for what would not dear grand- 
papa, kind grandpapa do for her ? Ah ! anything 
indeed: for the old man seemed almost to worship 
the ground his sweet blue-eyed Yiolet trod on. 

Time had somewhat softened the intensity of 
Hetty’s grief, and though her wild exuberance of 
spirits w^as gone forever, she was calm and cheerful. 
She was always busy, too. She had her little 
daughter’s education to attend to, and she superin- 
tended all Mr. Melville’s domestic arrangements, 
presiding at Springfield as mistress of the house. 
Then she was her father-in-law’s constant compan- 
ion during his leisure hours — playing and reading 
to him, walking with him, and endeavoring, in 
every possible way, to render him as happy as she 
could. 

Yery often they had friends staying with them — 
Laura and her husband generally came down two 
or three times in the year ; and William Melville, 
who had been married some two years before, was 


Time’s Changes. 


317 


never long without paying them a visit. Aunt 
Louisa, too, always came in the summer, and spent 
a month with each of her nieces, so that Hetty and 
Mr. Melville were never long by themselves. 

It was so pleasant, too, for Hetty to have her sis- 
ter living so near. To go to Mow Farm was always 
a pleasant walk for herself and Violet, and she knew 
that in Beatrice she had a friend in whom she could 
always confide, and to whom she could look up for 
counsel and advice. 

Now, however, Walter and Beatrice were not 
alone, for they were entertaining, at their house, 
some very old friends — friends whom we have not 
seen for many years. They consisted of a young 
minister and his wife, and a widow lady in very 
delicate health. 

Let us look back awhile into the past. Madame 
de Tremonille’s expectations and hopes with regard 
to her dear child, Blanche, had ere this been real- 
ized, and about two months before the time we are 
speaking of, she had seen her united to Mr. Camp- 
bell. It was as good a match, in every way, as she 
could have desired, for they seemed indeed thor- 
oughly suited to each other, and to be such as would 
go heart and hand together through life’s journey. 

Madame de Tremonille had been the more anx- 
ious for this union to take place in consequence of 
her own declining health : for how could she bear 


318 Greatness in Little Things. 

to leave her dear child without a protector ? Her 
own estate of Palm Hill she had already bequeathed 
to her, and it was agreed that, even should her life 
be spared, Blanche and her husband should live 
with her, and make it their home. 

The heat of the climate had gradually under- 
mined her English constitution, and the physicians 
imperatively ordering a colder climate, she was in- 
duced to accept her friend Beatrice Grey’s oft-re- 
peated invitation, and come to pass a few months 
with her in America. Hither she had been accom- 
panied by Mr. Campbell and Blanche, for they were 
unwilling for her to travel so long a distance alone, 
and in so precarious a state of health. Beside, Mr. 
Campbell had previously arranged with a brother 
minister to take his place for a few weeks, that he 
and Blanche might be able to take a little trip after 
their marriage, so that it was no inconvenience for 
him to leave his charge. 

Here, then, we find them all at Mow Farm, walk- 
ing up and down the garden with Beatrice and 
Walter. Oh ! what a long time it seemed since they 
had met — nine years ! ! What changes had taken 
place ! and how many, many events had occurred ! 
Madame de Tremonille was delighted to see Bea- 
trice again, and she could never sufficiently ad- 
mire her lovely children, of whom there were now 
four. 


Time's Changes. 


319 


Both Beatrice and Hetty said they should not have 
recognized Blanche at all ; they had seen her last a 
little slim child of ten years, and now she appeared 
before them a young woman, with a tall, graceful 
figure, and a brilliant brunette complexion, retain- 
ing something in both her countenance and bearing 
which bespoke her French origin. But though they 
said they should not have known her, yet they felt 
that sh^was all that her fond adopted mother had 
so frequently described in her letters. There was 
something about Blanche which plainly bespoke a 
cultivated and superior intellect, while there was 
also a gentle calmness and softness of manner that 
suited well the Christian wife of a Christian min- 
ister. 

Seated on a low seat, at the far end of the garden, 
might be seen an elderly mulatto-woman who had 
accompanied Madame de Tremonille from St. Tho- 
mas as her attendant, in consequence of her weak 
state of health. This was our old friend, widow 
Moore. Although the past nine years had added 
somewhat of a stoop to her form and rendered her 
step less alert, yet the light of her Christian charac- 
ter, that light which if duly trimmed at the altar, 
can never grow dim, burned yet brighter and clearer. 

She was now surrounded by a group of merry 
children, who were listening with breathless delight, 
to her tales about her tropical home. Foremost 


320 Greatness in Little Things. 

among this group of children might be seen a tall, 
thoughtful-looking boy, of apparently about fourteen 
years of age. To him the others seemed to look up 
as their counselor-general, watching his counten- 
ance to see if he were listening, or perhaps if the 
good widow were reciting something beyond their 
youthful comprehension, they would gaze at Francis 
to see whether they were expected to laugh or cry. 

It was not long that Blanche and Mr. Qampbell 
could stay with their American friends, for the latter 
was impatient to return to the scene of his labors ; 
but it was agreed that Madame de Tremonille should 
remain at Mow Farm for several months, all hoping 
that the change of air might restore her to her ac- 
customed health. 

To perfect health it certainly did not restore her ; 
but by the following summer she was so much better 
that she and her faithful attendant once more set off 
for St. Thomas. There, after two years more of al- 
ternate sickness and health — two years more of gen- 
tle love and Christian usefulness — she passed away 
to that rest “which remaineth for the people of 
God.” 

Her remains repose in the little church-yard near 
those of Beatrice’s father; and truly and deeply 
was she lamented, not only by Blancue and her hus- 
band, but by the numerous friends and dependents 
she left in the island — “ Blessed are the dead which 


Conclusion. 


321 


die in the Lord ; yea, saith the Spirit, for they 
rest from their labors, and their works do follow 
them.” 

Blanche and Mr. Campbell now reside at Palm 
Hill, pursuing actively the duties of their calling as 
laborers in the vineyard of their Lord. And here 
w^e shall leave them, only trusting that when they 
too shall have finished the work their Master has for 
them to do, they may meet around that throne of 
the Lamb all those dear friends, from whom, as we 
see, death had been permitted to separate them. 
And now, too, as even the “best friends must 
l)art,” we shall say farewell to our friend Beatrice 
Grey. 

We leave her happy in the quiet duties of domes- 
tic life, training her little ones up in the service and 
love of God, and being, as she always has been, her 
husband’s daily joy, and dearest earthly friend. Her 
path of life was not uncheckered by trials ; but 
there were always so many sweet violets growing 
by the way-side, that it was not other than a happy 
• one. 

In her children she was abundantly rewarded, and 
in none more so than in her adopted son, Francis, 
who lived to be, as had always been the dearest 
wish of his heart, an eminent and devoted minister of 
the Gospel. And by the tender love, and unceasing. 


322 


Greatness in Little Things. 


dutiful respect he showed for Walter and Beatrice 
when a boy, as well as by his future career, so pecu- 
liarly blessed and honored, the truth of that word 
was abundantly proved to them — “ Cast thy bread 
upon the waters, and thou shalt find it after many 
days.” 


THE END. 


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